For a Reason: The 42nd Hunger Games
by Elim9
Summary: "I'm not a big believer in magic. But this place is different. It's special... What if everything that happened here, happened for a reason?"
1. Just Progress

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yep, another SYOT. I'm quite addicted. Information and the tribute form are on my profile.

This story does follow my other three, but it should still make perfect sense if you haven't read them. If you have, there are lots of new faces this time around, although a few familiar ones are back, as well.

Those of you who are just jumping in, the only thing you really need to know is that canon has just been tossed out the window. And it made a very satisfying "thump" as it hit the ground.

* * *

**For a Reason  
****The 42****nd**** Hunger Games**

* * *

**Prologue  
****Just Progress**

* * *

**President Silas Grisom**

President Snow was dead.

Silas paced the room once more before finally settling into the desk that was now his. It was one of the few items that remained in the room. A desk that held a few pens and pieces of paper. A few chairs. A small painting of the Capitol emblem. He had removed everything else. The room was sparse. Bare. A fresh start.

He would need it.

Silas chose one of the pens and started doodling. This wasn't a job he had ever wanted. And he hadn't been anyone's first choice

Unfortunately, it seemed he had been _everyone's _second choice. And since each person's _first _choice had been himself, second-best was enough. He wasn't a popular choice. But he was a safe choice. After the fiasco of the 41st Games and the death of the president a mere week later, people needed someone reliable. Someone who could pull things back together before handing the reins to someone younger and more ambitious.

Silas shook his head. The sooner he could hand over the title, the better. He was getting too old for this. And he had no intention of ending up like his predecessor.

Rumors still ran rampant about what, exactly, had happened to President Snow. Some claimed that he had been assassinated by rebels. Others insisted that a political rival had finally managed to get the better of him and was waiting to take his place once Silas stepped down. Still others believed that Gamemaker Ward, the most recent Head Gamemaker, feared that the president might execute her for her part in the events of the 41st Games and had decided to act first. And a few naïve fools still believed the official story: that the president had died peacefully in his bed.

A knock on the door interrupted Silas' thoughts. Immediately, he set his scribblings aside. He hadn't expected them to be so prompt. He was used to waiting until other people were ready to see _him_, not the other way around.

Yet another thing to get used to.

"Come in," Silas called, and the door opened. A woman in her early thirties stepped in. Tamika Ward, President Snow's most recent Head Gamemaker. The fifth – no, sixth – since both President Richmond Hyde and Head Gamemaker Helius Florum had stepped down following the 25th Games. Under President Snow, no Head Gamemaker had lasted more than three years.

No wonder she looked nervous.

She was trying to hide it, though. She stood as tall as she could – which wasn't particularly tall, even with shoes that added a few inches to her height. Her hands were clasped firmly behind her back, her head held high. "You wished to see me, Mr. President."

Mr. President. He would have to get used to that. "Have a seat," Silas offered.

Tamika shook her head. "I'd rather stand."

Silas shrugged. "Suit yourself, but we may be a while. I'd like to talk about what happened during the Games."

Reluctantly, Tamika took a seat across from him. "May I speak plainly, Sir?"

Silas grinned. "I'd be disappointed if you ever did otherwise."

"Then, if I may, Mr. President … If you're going to fire me – or execute me – then please just get it over with. Let's not bother with sitting around and chatting first."

Silas chuckled a little. "Ms. Ward, I'm not interested in executing you. As for firing you … Well, let's just say that depends on how our little chat goes. I'd like you to tell me what happened during the Games."

"But you already know—"

"I know what I saw on the screen. I know what other people have said." Silas leaned forward a little, hands folded on his desk. "Before I was a part of President Snow's cabinet, before I was District Twelve's mentor, I was a lawyer. One of the best, if I may say so. And, as a lawyer, I learned the importance of hearing everyone's side of the story. From the beginning. Without any preconceived ideas about what happened." He smiled a little. "So this is your chance, Ms. Ward. Tell me – in your own words – what happened."

Tamika seemed to relax a little. Good. That was good. "All right," she said at last. "I suppose it started at the reaping. There were the normal volunteers, of course – from One, Two, and Four. One of the tributes from Five, as well, but they've been training a bit, ever since Camden won. So that wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

"But there were other volunteers, too – more than any other year. One of the tributes from Three. Both from Six. Both from Eight. All eighteen. All strong, fit, prepared. I didn't think anything of it, at first. Figured that maybe the other districts were finally starting to take a hint and adopt a Career system of their own."

Silas nodded. "Reasonable. But…"

"But during training, they all grouped together – then began adding to their numbers. They pulled in the girl from Three – and then both the tributes from Four. A large alliance. Larger than normal. So we started paying closer attention to them, and we got wind of their plan: They wanted to put a stop to the Games.

"It was a fairly simple plan. Band together, eliminate the tributes who insisted on fighting, and then hold their ground. Wait. Hope that, if they refused to fight, we would be forced to let them go."

"So you knew their plan before they entered the arena."

"Yes. But I thought it better to wait. Let the audience see them fail. Eventually, they would turn on each other – it was only a matter of time."

Silas nodded. "Nine times out of ten, you would have been right. Probably what I would have done, myself."

Tamika stared. She had clearly expected judgment. Condemnation. Instead, he was telling her she had made the right choice. "Once they were in the arena … everything happened so quickly. The bloodbath was a slaughter. The rebels had clearly been training, and they had two of the Careers on their side. They wiped out the other Careers, then went after the others who were determined to fight. A few of the stronger outliers. Both the younger tributes from Twelve. Anyone who wouldn't join them was killed – and quickly. Soon, it was just the twelve of them, and they all refused to fight each other.

"So I sent in the mutts. Imitations of the twelve Olympian gods. They separated the tributes, brought them to a secret part of the arena – an underworld I'd intended for the finale. I offered them a deal. The first tribute to agree to kill the others would be allowed to live; the others would be tortured and executed. It didn't take long. The girl from Three took my deal, and she killed the others – one by one."

Silas nodded. "And the girl – is she a threat?"

Tamika shook her head. "Only to herself. Word is, she tried to kill herself once she found out what happened to her family."

Silas held back a cringe of distaste. The families of the twelve tributes who had refused to fight had been executed. Brutally. Mercilessly. Children as young as two and grandparents who could barely stand. Anyone deemed close enough to the tributes to pose a threat.

"Whose idea were the executions?" Silas asked after a moment.

"President Snow's," Tamika admitted. "He was very ... thorough."

"He was paranoid, a micromanager, and a loose cannon," Silas translated. "I've half a mind to thank whoever's responsible for his demise. They probably did all of Panem a favor." He shook his head. "I suppose that leaves us with one question: What do you want?"

"Sir?"

"What do you want? After what happened last year, I wouldn't blame you if you want out. If you want to step down peacefully, go back to your life, you're welcome to do so. But if you'd prefer to continue as Head Gamemaker, the job is yours."

"Even after what happened—"

Silas shrugged. "What happened was out of your control. You couldn't have stopped the rebels from volunteering. Maybe you could have separated them from the others during training, but once they were in the Games, you couldn't stop them from interacting with the other tributes. As far as I'm concerned, you were handed a lousy situation, which you handled with control and restraint. I need that. Right now, Panem needs someone who can handle pressure, someone who will be fair but firm, someone who will deliver justice, not vengeance. So … What do you want?"

Tamika stared for a moment. Then she stood up, taller and prouder than before. "I want the job, Mr. President."

Silas stood up and offered his hand. "Just Silas is fine."

She shook it. "Tamika."

"Well, then, Tamika … We have work to do."

* * *

"_It only ends once. Anything that happens before that is just progress."_


	2. Numbers

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Wednesday is part of the weekend, right...? Yeah, sorry about the wait. Updates should be fairly frequent from now on – especially once _Born in Pain _is completely wrapped up. (One more chapter to go there.) I'm counting this as my Camp NaNoWriMo project, which helped me get through the reapings pretty quickly last time.

Thank you to everyone who submitted. We've got a great batch of tributes this time around, and I'm really looking forward to getting started with them. I did end up accepting a few more than I'd originally planned to, but, to be honest, the following explanation of the numbers change makes more sense than what I'd originally intended, anyway. So forty-six tributes it is.

Even so, I did end up having to turn down quite a few tributes. My apologies for that, but there simply wasn't a way to work everyone in. If you're not sore and are looking for a place to submit the tributes I had to decline – or if you submitted more than one and are looking for something to do with the ones that I inevitably didn't accept – my brother, Greybeard mmmmmm3, has an open SYOT and is in need of tributes. So send a few his way! (There's a link on my profile.)

And now, without further ado, an explanation of the extra numbers...

* * *

**Prologue, Part Two  
****Numbers**

* * *

**Tamika Ward  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Twenty-two extra tributes."

Tamika repeated the news again, trying to make sense of it. "Why twenty-two, Mr. President?"

Silas leaned forward a little in his chair. "It's simple, really. Last year, there were twelve tributes who refused to fight – both from Three, Four, Six, and Eight, the girls from Seven, Nine, and Ten, and the boy from Eleven. So this year, in addition to the regular twenty-four tributes, those districts will send two replacements – of the same gender – for each of the tributes who participated in the rebellion."

Tamika did the math. "But that would be twenty-four."

Silas nodded. "Quite right. But the girl from three – Avery – she gave in. Changed her mind. She's a symbol to the districts that it's never too late to accept the Capitol's offer of forgiveness. She's already paid a steep price for her actions: the burden of having killed the others, the loss of her family. She doesn't need two more tributes to die in her name."

"That leaves Districts One, Two, Five, and Twelve untouched," Tamika pointed out.

"Indeed," Silas agreed. "They had no part in the rebellion. No need for them to pay the price."

"But won't they see it as a disadvantage – especially the Careers? Almost double the number of tributes, but only two for each of them. Not exactly good odds."

Silas smiled a little. "That's where you come in. I'm counting on you to keep the playing field level. And even if they were sending six tributes, like District Four, only one could win. More tributes only means that more will die – it doesn't really increase anyone's odds of winning."

"District Twelve will certainly be grateful." Tamika shook her head. "I always wondered what made them determined to fight. One and Two – well, they're Careers, and District Five's mentors have always been loyal. But Twelve – two thirteen-year-olds, surrounded by rebels, still insisting on fighting. That kind of courage … What inspired it?"

Silas nodded gravely. "Not courage. Desperation. Though maybe they're the same thing, in the end. I believe we have Brennan to thank for that. Not the sort of loyalty you'll see in One and Two, and he's certainly not the fanatic that Harakuise is. But he knows how the game is played. The year he won, you have to remember, was the year the entire Avdeyev family was executed following the son's death in the Games."

Tamika remembered. She'd only been a teenager at the time, but she remembered the executions. She remembered Brennan's victory. He'd never struck Tamika as particularly patriotic – most outer-district tributes weren't – but maybe Silas was right. Maybe desperation was a good substitute for loyalty, in a pinch. He certainly knew what happened to rebels in the Games, and would have told his tributes that their families' lives were at risk if they joined the rebels. "But surely the other mentors knew, too," Tamika insisted. "Surely they knew it wouldn't work."

"Of course they did," Silas agreed. "Most of them, at least. But some didn't care. Some tributes wouldn't listen, regardless of what their mentors said. Maybe a few mentors were even delusional enough to believe – or at least hope – that the rebels had a chance. But, whatever the combination of circumstances that led to it, District Twelve remained loyal. They followed the rules of the Games. And they'll be rewarded for it – or, at the very least, not punished for the actions of the others."

"As you wish, Mr. President. Is there anything else?"

Silas nodded. "Just one thing. Your plan for the arena – is it large enough to accommodate the additional tributes?"

Tamika smiled a little. A part of her had been hoping he would ask. Her arena idea wasn't her most ambitious or breathtaking – and it was a far cry from the previous year's Mount Olympus – but she was proud of it, nonetheless. After the events of the 41st Games, she reasoned, people needed security. Familiarity. Something a bit more traditional. Almost old-fashioned.

She just hoped the president would approve.

"I believe so, Mr. President," she answered respectfully. "Would you like to see?"

Silas grinned, and Tamika's apprehension seemed to melt away. The president looked almost like a small child about to open a brand new bag of toys. He practically leapt from his chair and was at her side in an instant, beaming proudly.

"Lead the way."

* * *

"_What do these numbers mean? Please!"_

* * *

**Tribute List:**

**District One**

Jamie Gloire, 18 (_Alice Kingsleighs_)  
Inviticus Cassiano, 18 (_Jael. Rice__. 1_)

**District Two**

Naella Sareen, 18 (_Acereader55_)  
Septimus Drakon, 18 (_SpaceAgeDino_)

**District Three**

India Telle, 17 (_stellaslomp_)  
Horatio Connors, 15 (_Lt Fedora_)  
Aleron Blanchet, 15 (_ImmyRose_)  
Evander Mercado, 16 (_twistedservice_)

**District Four**

Mavina Perrot, 17 (_Cashmere67_)  
Imalia Grenier, 17 (_Lupus Overkill_)  
Kendall Rios, 18 (_SomeDays_)  
Brevin Tolett, 17 (_LokiThisIsMadness_)  
Auster Maverick, 18 (_IndigoStarling_)  
Jarlan DuMorne, 18 (_Deuce Ex Machina_)

**District Five**

Liana Kinney, 18 (_bobothebear_)  
Zachary Travelle, 17 (_Remus98_)

**District Six**

Presley Delon, 13 (_BamItsTyler_)  
Nadine Olliston, 14 (_District11-Olive_)  
Cordelia Astier, 15 (_Galahad Dragonbeam_)  
Paget Astier, 15 (_mikitty bast_)  
Alexi Merista, 16 (_Bigpapi1234_)  
Delvin Flynn, 18 (_Lazy Owl_)

**District Seven**

Fallon Ladris, 15 (_Aileen's feather_)  
Ciere Renole, 17 (_Call Me Fin_)  
Audra Trevaille, 18 (_Jakey121_)  
Domingo Ibanez, 14 (_Blue Eyes Arch Angel_)

**District Eight**

Gadget Test, 16 (_TomatoesfromMarco98_)  
Ivira Spielreyn, 16 (_kopycat101_)  
Adelia Luciano, 16 (_upsettomcat42_)  
Baylor Alanis, 14 (_nevergone4ever_)  
Louis Soren, 14 (_Emi96_)  
Jediah Bouvier, 15 (_Greybeard mmmmmm3_)

**District Nine**

Myrah Lanhart, 14 (_The Lunar Lioness_)  
Melody Anson, 15 (_kkfanatic22_)  
Sariya Charsley, 16 (_Sunlight Comes Creeping In_)  
Thane Hayer, 17 (_Aspect of One_)

**District Ten**

Elizabet Brower, 15 (_Khloe Grace_)  
Calantha Harlyn, 16 (_blurry cornrow_)  
Indira Serren, 18 (_Glimmer Icewood_)  
Beckett Furlan, 16 (_komiking_)

**District Eleven**

Elani Ingram, 14 (_Burning Stars_)  
Pan Soya, 12 (_DaughterofApollo7_)  
Philus Polaine, 13 (_nuttmeg_)  
Shale Avenheim, 18 (_MornieGalad Baggins_)

**District Twelve**

Eleanor Marxs, 16 (_Axe Smelling God_)  
Barry Zephir, 15 (_Jalen Kun_)


	3. District One: Team

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **As promised, we're going to jump right in with the reapings. Just a few housekeeping notes.

Firstly, the reapings are going to vary slightly in length, due mostly to the different numbers of tributes in each district. A district with six tributes is going to have a longer chapter than a district with only two. That's probably common sense, but I figured I'd mention it before anyone sees the need to draw attention to it.

Second, make sure to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good fit. **Careers**, you are not exempt from this. Due to the sheer number of Careers, we will almost certainly end up with more than one pack. So let me know who you'd like to see together. I already have a few ideas, but, again, given the number of tributes, I'd appreciate whatever suggestions you have.

Third, there's a link to the blog on my profile, if you haven't found it already. Tributes will be added to the blog as they're introduced in-story. In my experience, this tends to discourage split-second judgments of tributes based on a picture and a few words in the blog.

Fourth, my brother is still in need of tributes, so send a few his way.

Last but certainly not least, thank you to _Alice Kingsleighs _and _Jael. Rice. 1 _for Jaime and Inviticus, respectively.

* * *

**District One  
****Team**

* * *

**Jade Floren, 51  
****Victor of the 7****th**** Hunger Games**

"Are you sure about this?"

Jade slid an arm around Jasper's shoulders as the five of them – Jade, Stellar, Jasper, his sister Thea, and fellow victor Amelia – headed to the square for the reaping. Jasper rolled his eyes fondly. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dad. I won the Games. I was a mentor two years ago. Why should this year be any different?"

Jade smiled a little, trying his best not to seem like an overprotective father. Jasper had a point, of course. He had made it through the Games on his own merits, not because of his heritage. And, only two years later, he had insisted on mentoring. "I just figured that, after what happened last time, you might not be so eager to mentor again," Jade admitted. Jasper's first tribute, Ebony Marcus, had been torn to pieces by a three-headed dragon while attempting to attack Kit from District Eight, who had gone on to win the Games.

Jasper swallowed hard at the memory, but he held firm. "What happened with Ebony … I learned from it. And I'll keep learning. But the only way to do that is to keep trying."

Thea gave Jasper a friendly punch in the arm. "You tell 'em, Jasper," she grinned, then turned her disarming smile on Jade. "He'll have to try again sometime. This year, next year, five years from now – what's the difference?"

Jade nodded. She was right. There shouldn't be a difference at all. But after what had happened last year…

Last year. Once again, Jade was hit with a surge of relief that Thea had decided at a young age not to continue her training. Last year, she had been eighteen. If she had trained, if she had been ready, they would probably have chosen her. The rebels would have killed her. She would be gone.

But she wasn't. She was here. She was alive. And so was Jasper. And, as rough as mentoring could sometimes be, Jasper's life wouldn't be in danger this year.

And why _should _this year be any different? Even if the Capitol had something special planned – as had been rumored since the end of the last Games – surely District One would be spared. District One had remained loyal. Surely they would be rewarded for that.

There was no need to worry.

"All right," Jade agreed as they neared the square. "You and me, then." He glanced at Stellar, who nodded gratefully. After what had happened last year, she deserved a year to recover. He wouldn't have minded taking a year off, either, of course, but Jasper needed someone experienced with him, at least this time. And both Jade and Stellar had mentored for so long that none of the other victors really qualified as 'experienced' mentors.

"Unless you're interested, Amelia," Jade offered, which earned him a good-natured glare from his fellow victor. Amelia, like Felix, had proven herself quite capable during her own Games, but had no interest in either training new tributes or mentoring them herself.

Amelia shook her head. "I'll pass. Ask Scarlet."

Jade smirked. Scarlet had mentored for a few years before deciding it wasn't really for her. Since then, she'd found her niche giving tours of previous arenas to nostalgic Capitolites. Jasper's arena – a recreation of Neverland – was always a favorite.

Cheers erupted from the crowd as Jade and his family entered the square. Scarlet was already waiting for them, early as usual. A few moments later, Felix arrived, along with his wife, Jasmine, and their three children: Felicity, Piper, and Enoch. After a few hugs, Jasmine and Thea headed for the adult section, while Felix's children took their place with the other teenagers.

But there was no concern on Felix's face as the six victors took the stage. His children were in no danger. No child in District One had entered the Games against their will since the 25th Games, which had forbidden volunteers. The Career system not only prepared those who wanted to risk their lives; it protected those who had no interest in volunteering.

As long as there were no surprises in store.

Jade shook the thought from his head as Ishmael Scimone, District One's escort, stepped up to the microphone to read the names of the victors. He gave a little speech. The mayor gave a little speech. The crowd cheered.

All perfectly normal.

Finally, Ishmael took his place by the first of the reaping bowls. No show. No fuss. He drew a name quickly, knowing that the decision had already been made. The name he drew was not the name of the tribute who would enter the Games.

Still, it was a formality, and formalities had to be observed. "Chanelle Morani!" Ishmael called out.

No sooner had the name left his lips, however, than a familiar voice called out, "I volunteer!" and Jaime Gloire stepped forward to claim her place onstage, wearing a long, white blouse, a dark sparkly skirt, and matching shoes. She was about average in height and weight, lean and well-muscled. She was fair-skinned, with short blonde hair and piercing green eyes.

Jade flashed her a playful smile, but Jaime took no interest. She was all business as she stepped up to the microphone, announced her name, and took her place beside the escort, waiting for the second name to be drawn.

Ishmael took a hint and moved on to the boys' bowl. Once again, he simply drew the first piece of paper his fingers found, knowing that, in a moment, the name on the paper would be completely irrelevant. "Sullivan Cascella!"

"I volunteer!" Jade nodded a little as their chosen volunteer, Inviticus Cassiano, burst out of the crowd, wearing a blue button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. He quickly made his way to the stage, making a show of shoving everyone else out of the way. As if anyone was going to stand in his way, to try to prevent him from volunteering. The crowd quickly parted, and he lunged to the stage beside his district partner.

Tall and muscular, he towered over Jaime and Ishmael – and most of the victors, as well. He was dark-skinned, with short, curly black hair and dark brown eyes, a nose that had clearly been broken, and a large scar across his right cheek. He certainly looked intimidating, but there was a grin on his face as he took the microphone and announced his name. This was his moment. And he was going to enjoy every bit of it.

"Shake hands!" Ishmael grinned, and they did. The crowd roared. Once they quieted down, Jaime and Inviticus were herded off to the Justice Building to say their goodbyes. The crowd dispersed, leaving the six victors alone onstage.

All perfectly ordinary.

"See?" Jasper grinned. "Nothing to worry about. Whatever the Capitol has planned, it doesn't involve us."

Jade nodded. "Looks like you were right. So … Jaime or Inviticus?" He, Stellar, and Jasper had all worked extensively with both tributes, and he and Jasper would continue to work with both of them throughout the Capitol festivities and training, but, as a formality, they each had to choose one to mentor officially.

"I'll take Inviticus," Jasper said immediately. "Unless you'd rather—"

Jade shook his head. "All yours." No reason to make a big deal out of the choice. They both wanted the same thing, in the end: another victor for District One. Whether that victor was Jaime or Inviticus, or whether that victor was mentored by Jade or his son – that wasn't the point. They were a team.

And if one member of the team was victorious, then that was enough.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18**

This wasn't about them anymore.

Jaime breathed a sigh of relief as her mother and sister finally left. They were gone. She was alone. But that was all right. Better, even. She was doing this for herself, after all. Not for her father, who had pushed her to train until his death two years ago. Not for her mother, who had always wanted her to be a proper lady. And not for her sister, Lulu, who had been everything her mother had dreamed of.

No. No, this was for herself. The one thing that was truly her own.

It hadn't been, at first. It had been her father's. His dream. His hopes for her. It was only after his death that she'd realized just how badly he'd wanted a victor in the family, how much he'd pushed her to train.

For a while, that had given her doubts about training. About _why_ she was pushing herself. Was it really for her, or was it simply because it was what he would have wanted her to do? Was his dream worth risking her life for? Worth dying for?

It had almost come as a surprise when Jade and Stellar had chosen her to volunteer. And, still, she hadn't been sure. She could have said no. Others had refused in the past, or backed out. There was no shame in that. Jade and Stellar had been perfectly clear about that. They only wanted volunteers who _wanted _to be there. They wanted this to be her choice.

So she had made it her own. Pushed herself harder in this last month than she had ever dreamed she could. She was ready.

And now there was no turning back. She was on her own. Jade and Japser and Inviticus – they could help her, work with her, but they couldn't do this for her. In the end, only she could make those years of training worth _something_. They would have a purpose. They would have meaning.

_She_ would have meaning.

Jaime glanced at the tokens in her hands. Her mother had given her a mirror. Her sister had offered her a hair ribbon. But as the Peacekeepers came to take her to the train, she left them both behind. She didn't need a token, a reminder of her family or her district. She wasn't doing this for them. She was doing this for herself.

And she would do it alone.

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18**

This was about all of them.

Inviticus grinned as his parents, both proudly clad in their Peacekeeper uniforms, left, his father turning back one last time with a look of pride on his face. He would make them proud – his father, his mother, and all of District One.

Because it was about all of them, in the end. The whole district. A district that, despite the actions of the rebels in the previous Games, had remained loyal to the Capitol.

And they had paid the price for it. Moira and Clarence – both well-known faces at the academy – had been robbed of a fair chance at victory. They had paid the ultimate price for their loyalty.

But now the rebels would pay a price of their own.

He would make them pay. Three. Four. Six. Eight. Anyone who dared to stand with them. He would be the instrument of the Capitol's vengeance, striking down anyone who dared oppose them.

That was what the Games were, after all: revenge. Beneath all the talk of glory and honor, the truth was that the Games were simply a tool for revenge against the Capitol's enemies. Everyone knew it. Rebels, relatives or rebels, other troublemakers – they were always more likely to be reaped. Half the tributes in the arena were probably enemies of the Capitol.

More than half.

Almost all of them, probably.

Except for those who had joined the Capitol's side. Those who had chosen to fight for the winning team. One. Two.

But not Four. Not anymore. They had turned their backs on the Capitol last year. They couldn't be trusted. But One and Two – and Five, even – they had held fast.

And now they would be rewarded.

It was no secret that the Capitol was planning something special. Exactly what it was, no one seemed to know, but Inviticus was determined to be a part of it. He'd made that clear during training. And Jade and Stellar had made the right choice.

Now he would make them proud. All of them. His family. His trainers. His district. The Capitol. He would be remembered for his loyalty. And he would be rewarded for it.

He didn't expect them to simply hand him his victory, of course. Inviticus turned a small wooden top over in his hands as he headed for the door. A reminder – a reminder he had stolen from the first boy he had beaten. The first boy who had earned his wrath. A reminder that victory was earned, not given. And now he would earn it again.

But he wouldn't have to do it alone.

* * *

"_You're playing for the wrong team."_

"_Yeah? What team are you on?"_

"_The one that's gonna win."_


	4. District Two: Variables

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **My brother could still use a few more tributes, so send some his way.

Thank you to Acereader55 and SpaceAgeDino for Naella and Septimus, respectively.

* * *

**District Two  
****Variables**

* * *

**Harriet Bard, 22  
****Victor of the 37****th**** Hunger Games**

"Are you sure about this?"

Harriet glanced up at Mortimer as they headed for the square, still silently hoping he would change his mind. Mortimer shook his head. "I'm sure. I know how you feel, Harriet, but Anton—"

"—is a brute," Harriet finished. "He doesn't listen. He's pig-headed, rude, and he doesn't have an ounce of common sense. Even Naella—"

"Barely tolerates him? What did you expect. They're _competition_, and they both understand that. They'll put up with each other for a while, but, in the end, they won't hesitate to turn on each other. That's a _good_ thing."

"Not if it happens too soon and they end up tearing the pack apart," Harriet pointed out. "An early split is rarely a good thing for Careers; it allows the other districts to take advantage. You know that." Harriet shook her head. They'd already had this conversation at least twice. Why wouldn't he listen? "When you chose me to volunteer, you told me that it was because of my flexibility, my ability to adapt to anything. Anton—"

"Doesn't have that," Mortimer admitted. "I know. Listen, Harriet. There's a time for flexibility, and there's a time for strength. This year is different."

Harriet blinked. So _that _was what this was about. "But if you think this year is going to be different, then shouldn't we choose someone who can adapt to that? Someone who will be able to deal with what's coming – whatever it is?"

"Maybe. Maybe we should. But what we _have _to do is choose people we know we can trust to do as they're told. Anton is a patriot, through and through. Naella is one of the most driven young women I have ever met. If something happens – something like last year – I know that I can count on either of them to do their duty … even if it gets them killed."

Harriet opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it. As much as she disagreed with Mortimer's choice, he was the senior instructor. He had the final say in the volunteer selection.

It was out of her hands.

Harriet and Mortimer took the stage together, to thunderous applause. More applause followed as the other victors arrived. Ariadne. Balthasar. And, finally, Talitha and Vester, the latter giving a weary sigh and a slow shake of his head as the crowd erupted with cheers.

Once the victors were finally assembled, District Two's escort, Chiara Griffin, took her place by the microphone. Harriet smiled a little as her gaze found the two chosen volunteers, both standing near the front of the eighteen-year-old section. Only five years ago, she had been standing in their place. Eager. Anxious. A little nervous, but determined, nonetheless.

Neither of them looked nervous enough.

Finally, Chiara dipped her hand into the first bowl and drew a name. "Verity Caldwell!"

"I volunteer!" Right on cue, Naella Sareen stepped forward, wearing a simple red blouse and black skirt. Her hair, long and ginger, hung loose past her shoulders and halfway down her back. She was tall and lithe, rather thin for a Career but very fit.

Harriet nodded as Naella stepped confidently to the microphone and introduced herself. The Games weren't always about physical bulk. She'd been no muscular wonder herself, and yet she was here, and five physically stronger Careers were dead. It was intelligence that mattered, and even Naella's long bangs, draping down over her face, couldn't hide the cunning in her piercing blue eyes.

Harriet flashed Mortimer a smile, and he nodded. They had already decided days ago who would work best with which tribute. Naella was hers, and she was grateful. At least she wouldn't have to put up with Anton.

But, just as Chiara reached into the second bowl to draw a name, there was a noise from the edge of the square. A boy was running for the stage, pursued by no less than four Peacekeepers. "I volunteer!" the boy shouted insistently, plunging into the crowd of teenagers that stood between him and the stage.

Anton, annoyed by the break of protocol, moved to intercept him, but the boy was too fast. Before anyone could react, he kicked Anton violently in the shin, pulled him into a headlock, and threw him to the ground. "To think you were the best this district had to offer," he sneered as he headed for the stage.

By the time the boy made it to the stage, however, Anton had recovered his wits and followed him. He knew the procedure. Most of them did. It was rare for anyone to challenge the trainers' decision of volunteers, but, after Balthasar's victory, Mortimer had taken care to establish rules for the possibility. In the event of more than one volunteer, the decision fell to the Victors, who would decide by a vote which volunteer would enter the Games.

The procedure, however, had only come into play once. Most would-be volunteers respected Mortimer's choice, reasoning that the other Victors would stand by him, anyway. The one time the procedure had come into play, three years ago, the challenger had been voted out three to one – with Vester and Talitha abstaining. What made this boy think he would have better luck?

Or could it be – was it possible – that he simply didn't know? She had never seen him at the academy before; she would certainly have remembered that. He was tall and slim, with pale skin and dark brown hair. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. Cold and grey, almost like a hawk's. Grey, just like his clothes. Grey shirt, grey pants – plain, unremarkable. He wasn't even dressed up for the reaping.

Chiara turned to the Victors. "I believe we put it to a vote, then?"

Alarm crossed the boy's face. Apparently, he _hadn't _known. But he quickly recovered. "I've just demonstrated my worthiness. Clearly, I'm the better choice."

Mortimer shook his head. "Not a chance, kid. You got lucky this time, but that's no substitute for years of training. Anton's still got my vote."

"And mine," Ariadne agreed. She'd worked alongside Mortimer as a mentor for years; of course she would back him up now. Harriet remained silent.

Balthasar smirked a little. "Luck's part of the Game, too. You've got spirit. I like that." He shrugged. "One vote for … What's your name?"

"Septimus Drakon," the boy answered, turning to the rest of them, hoping for another vote.

Harriet could feel Mortimer's eyes on her. Balthasar's vote wasn't particularly surprising; he had voted for the challenger the last time, as well, and been soundly overruled. Vester and Talitha would almost certainly abstain this time, as well. So that left her. A vote for Anton would send him into the Games. A vote for Septimus would leave them deadlocked.

And then what?

Still, she hesitated. This was what she'd been trying to tell Mortimer for days. Anton had strength, to be sure, but no adaptability. If this boy could catch him off guard so easily…

Harriet took a deep breath. "Septimus."

Mortimer glared. "In case of a deadlock, then perhaps the senior Victor should—"

"We're not deadlocked." Vester's voice caught everyone off-guard. "Septimus has my vote, as well."

Mortimer stared, stunned. Anton's expression mirrored his intended mentor's, but, to Harriet's surprise, after glancing at Mortimer, he turned and left the stage without a fuss. Still obedient. Still following procedures.

Harriet was more sure now than ever that it would have gotten him killed.

"Well, then," Chiara grinned. "Your tributes, District Two! Naella Serren and Septimus Drakon!"

The crowd cheered, more pleased than ever on account of the added drama. A look that was almost relief flooded Septimus' face. Naella's face, however, was as stony as ever. As if the sudden change of district partners didn't bother her in the slightest.

Adaptability.

Mortimer was still glaring as the tributes left the stage. "I am _not_ mentoring that boy."

Harriet blinked. In the two decades of Games since his own victory, Mortimer hadn't missed a year of mentoring. Did he mean that he wanted her to take Septimus, instead, so that he could work with Naella? Or did he mean something else entirely?

Balthasar settled the matter for him. "I'll take him, then," he offered with a casual shrug.

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow. "You? You've never wanted to mentor before—"

"True, but I have a soft spot for lucky little bastards, and I've got a feeling this one's as lucky as they come."

One by one, the other mentors left, until only Harriet and Vester remained. "It wasn't luck," Harriet pointed out. "It was you. Why? Why vote for him?" It was no secret that Vester disapproved of the Career system, but was that enough for him to simply vote in a non-trainee out of spite?

For a moment, Vester didn't answer. When he did, his voice was tired, and very old. "Before the Careers, Harriet, there were still volunteers. Every now and then, something would persuade a young boy or girl that it was worth risking their lives and their very humanity to achieve … something. Some wanted to save the life of a friend or loved one. Some wanted independence. And some … some wanted freedom."

He shook his head. "There are no … good reasons – not for this. Not for the slaughter of innocent lives. But there are reasons that make sense. There are reasons that are … if not good, then at least better. Better than bloodthirst or vengeance or a vague sense of patriotism – or an incessant need to prove oneself."

Harriet cringed a little; that last one had clearly been directed at her. She _had _been determined to prove herself. And that was exactly what she had done. She wasn't about to apologize for it – not to him. "What makes you think Septimus has a good reason?"

Vester shrugged. "To be honest, I can't say. Maybe something in his voice, or in his eyes." He chuckled a little. "Oh, and the four Peacekeepers trying to chase him down."

Harriet nodded. He had a point. Whatever the Peacekeepers had planned for him, apparently Septimus thought he had better chances in the Games. But, after what had happened the previous year, did he?

Or had he just sealed his own death?

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18**

"They'll all be watching you."

Septimus nodded as Galen continued to pace back and forth. Of course they would be watching him. He'd been watched all his life – but for the wrong reasons. They should have been watching in awe, watching as he rose in power and influence. Instead, he had lived his life guarded day and night, condemned to a life of imprisonment for the crimes of his mother.

Unless he won his freedom.

It was Galen who had left the door open for him – quite literally. He'd left the cell unlocked, allowing him to make a break for it in time to make it to the reaping. He'd never been allowed to attend one before – again, due to his mother. A Capitolite. A rebel Capitolite who had fled to the districts, but he had Capitol blood, nonetheless, which was enough of a loophole for them to keep him away from the reaping.

Enough to keep him alive.

And they wanted him alive. He was an asset to them. After one of his guards had discovered his talent, the Capitol had put him to work designing weapons and armor. He had no special love for the Capitol and their frivolity, but a challenge was a challenge, and he didn't exactly have anything better to do with his time.

Until now.

Now, they would all be watching him. The Capitol. The districts. He would have to be careful. Surely someone was already scurrying to the president's office to inform him that the son of the infamous Octavia Romayne had volunteered for the Games, perhaps wondering if he intended to finish his mother's work.

Septimus shook his head a little as Galen left. That idea couldn't be farther from the truth. He had no love for the Capitol, it was true, but he had less for the rebellion. His mother's actions had cost him his freedom. Instead of growing up in wealth and privilege in the Capitol, where his talents would have been recognized and appreciated, he was stuck here, in District Two, raised in solitude.

But not anymore.

Septimus fingered his ring, adorned with the Romayne family crest. A reminder of his true heritage. Once he won, he could claim the power and respect that were his by right.

Once he won.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would, in fact, win. He had already overpowered one Career. If the others were as fallible, he would be back in District Two in less than a week.

And then he would be free.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18**

They would all be watching him.

Naella allowed herself a small smirk as Mortimer entered the room. After her parents had come and gone, she hadn't expected anyone else. But it made sense that Mortimer would come, just as it made sense that he wouldn't mentor anyone but his chosen volunteer. Mortimer needed structure. Order. Consistency. But it went deeper than that. District Two's Career system was his baby. And now a tribute had come and upset the cradle.

Mortimer sat down next to her. "Don't trust him."

Naella shrugged. "I wasn't planning to _trust _any of them."

Mortimer smirked. "Fair enough. But keep an eye on him. He may not be trained, but that little stunt at the reaping will be enough to grab the sponsors' attention. They'll all be watching him."

Naella nodded. Of course they would. Anyone would. The Career system was well-proven, but that had the unfortunate effect of making it seem somewhat repetitive. The Capitol generally had a good idea of what sort of tributes to expect from Two. But now that Septimus had broken that pattern, their attention would be on him.

That's what she was counting on.

Adaptability. Harriet had drilled that into her head as Mortimer had drilled consistency. What neither of the two seemed to realize was that they were two sides of the same coin. The two went hand in hand.

Maybe Septimus wasn't the district partner she had expected. But he could serve the same function as Anton would have. He was a distraction. He would draw the attention of the sponsors – and the focus of the other tributes. He would make himself a target. Create discord. Chaos.

And she thrived on chaos.

Because she knew how to stay out of it. How to stay in the background, behind the scenes, manipulating the others until they tore themselves apart. And, when they were done, she would be there to pick up the pieces and claim her victory.

At least, that was the plan.

Of course, there was always a chance … a chance that things wouldn't work out so well, that victory wouldn't be quite so simple. But that was exactly the reason why she had to try. She had to know. The Games were the ultimate test, the ultimate challenge. She couldn't stand the thought of not knowing – of _never_ knowing – whether she could have passed.

So now she would find out.

* * *

"_We're the variables. People. We think. We reason. We make choices. We have free will. We can change our destiny."_


	5. District Three: Okay

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _stellaslomp_, _Lt Fedora_, _ImmyRose_, and _twistedservice _for India, Horatio, Aleron, and Evander, respectfully.

* * *

**District Three  
****Okay**

* * *

**Miriam Valence, 41  
****Victor of the 15****th**** Hunger Games**

"Are you sure about this?"

Miriam nodded emphatically. "It's the only way, Percival. We can't just leave Avery here alone. And she's certainly not ready to mentor. One of us should stay with her. I'm the more experienced mentor; I'm the obvious choice to go."

"And you're sure you can handle both of them by yourself?"

Miriam smiled a little. Percival was only trying to help, of course, but he sometimes forgot that she had mentored on her own for sixteen years. As much as she appreciated the company during the Games, Avery needed him even more than she did.

Miriam glanced over at the empty chair where Avery usually sat for breakfast. So far this morning, she had refused to come to the table, or even get out of bed. Sooner or later, she and Percival would have to get Avery ready for the reaping. Miriam was dreading it, but Avery had even more reason to want to crawl under her covers and hide all day.

Miriam wished she could let her.

Part of her wished she could join her.

But hiding wouldn't help anyone. Hiding wouldn't bring back the eleven tributes who had died at Avery's blade the year before. Hiding wouldn't bring back Avery's family, all of whom had been publicly whipped and executed on President Snow's orders as soon as the twelve tributes had refused to fight. Her parents. Her grandfather. Her seven-year-old brother. Chained up in the square, whipped nearly to the point of death, then left to die of exposure, dehydration, and blood loss. Their executions – and those of the other tributes' families – had been broadcast throughout the districts, replayed over and over again long after the Games had ended.

But hiding wouldn't bring them back.

And hiding wouldn't protect any of them from what the Capitol had planned for this year – whatever it might be. She couldn't shield Avery from the consequences of the last Games.

But she could protect her from mentoring. And she could make sure she didn't have to spend the Games alone. "I'm sure," Miriam repeated after she finished the last of her breakfast. "Take care of Avery. You don't need to worry about me."

"All right, then," Percival agreed. "Let's go get her."

They found Avery curled up under her covers, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing silently. Miriam wrapped her arms around her gently, wishing she didn't have to do this. "Avery? We have to go now – to the reaping. Once it's over, you can come right back here, but you have to get up. Just for a little while."

"I can't," Avery whispered through tears. "I don't want to see them. It's my fault. It's my fault."

Miriam held Avery close. "It's not your fault," she whispered soothingly, over and over again. "It's not your fault."

And it wasn't. Not really. Anders' plan had sounded so convincing, Miriam had almost believed it herself. She had _wanted _to believe it. Wanted to believe that if people simply stood firm, the Games would stop. The Capitol would be forced to let them go.

And if _she_ had wanted to believe it could happen, how could she blame a fourteen-year-old girl for being swayed? For wanting to believe that she and the others could make a difference. For wanting to stop the Games. How could she blame anyone for that?

And it had been Avery's decision to join the rebels – not her later actions – that had sealed her family's fate. By the time the Gamemakers offered their deal, the executions had already been carried out. As for agreeing to the Capitol's terms, Avery had simply been the first to cave under their torture. If she hadn't, someone else would have. Two of the others, in fact, had later cried out that they would take the deal. But by then it was too late. Avery had acted first.

She was alive.

"It's not your fault," Miriam repeated as she held Avery close, rocking her gently back and forth. Finally, Miriam managed to get her out of bed and dressed, and the three of them headed for the square.

There were no cheers. No shouts. Not even any whispers. There was only silence. Terrible, fearful silence. Children shuffled quietly into place, most not even daring to look up.

She would have done the same thing in their place.

But she wasn't in their place. She was a victor. And she could be strong – for them. For the two tributes who were about to be called to the stage. They would be frightened. Alone. So she would be strong, for their sakes. She would be brave.

She could be brave for them.

Miriam swallowed hard as District Three's escort, Richmond Elmore, gave her a sympathetic smile before taking his place by the first reaping bowl. She could do this. She had mentored alone before. She could do it again.

Richmond reached into the first bowl and drew a name. "India Telle!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a girl in a knee-length, peach-colored dress. For a moment, shock covered the girl's face, but it quickly faded, giving way to a hard, cold expression as she began to make her way towards the stage.

She was about average height, with dark skin and long, brown hair that was darker at the roots but grew lighter at the ends. Her eyes were brown, warm and deep, and, as she took the stage, Miriam was relieved to see that they held no tears. The girl's expression remained hard – almost angry – as she silently took her place facing the crowd.

Nodding a little, Richmond made his way to the second reaping bowl, reached in, and quickly drew a name. "Horatio Connors!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black pants. But the boy didn't move. Couldn't move, perhaps, out of sheer shock. After a long pause, one of the boys beside him gave his shoulder a shake, pointing at the Peacekeepers who were making their way towards the boy. That seemed to be enough to snap him out of it, and he finally took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, he made his way to the stage.

The boy was taller than his district partner and a bit more muscular, with dark skin and short, black hair. His dark brown eyes met his district partner's with as much confidence as he could muster, and they quickly shook hands.

By that time, however, Richmond had reached into the bowl once more. The whole crowd went silent as the escort drew another name. "As the first replacement for Anders Levine … Aleron Blanchet!"

It took Miriam a moment to process what was happening. A replacement. A substitute. As if last year's tribute had been defective in some way. A mistake. So they had decided to try again…

Only then did Miriam fully realize that he had called another name. Another tribute. Another child who would enter the Games.

The fifteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a boy in a brightly checkered, green-and-blue shirt and brown pants. One of the pant legs had been ripped off at the knee, and his brightly-colored shoes were mismatched. For a moment, he simply stared – at the crowd around him, at the escort, at the two tributes already onstage. Then he shook his head, turning his attention back to the crowd, motionless, perhaps unable to process what had just happened.

Even as the Peacekeepers came to get him, the boy seemed to be in a daze. He stumbled into one Peacekeeper, then another, on his way to the stage, and was still shaking his head as he took his place beside Horatio. He was smaller and less muscular than the other boy, with pale skin, long light brown hair, and hazel eyes. He kept shaking his head, swaying gently from side to side, as Richmond reached into the bowl again.

"As the second replacement for Anders Levine … Evander Mercado!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a black, long-sleeved, button-down shirt, black dress slacks, and black shoes. Immediately, the boy took a step backwards, staring, eyes brimming with tears as a boy beside him whispered something in his ear. The boy blinked rapidly, trying to keep from crying as he took a few hesitant steps towards the stage. Then a few more.

The boy was almost six feet tall, thin and lanky, with olive skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes that were still full of tears. As he took his place beside Aleron, a few spilled onto his cheeks. Then a few more. Shakily, he tried to wipe them away, swallowing hard, trying to pull himself together.

Beside Miriam, Avery was doing the same. Sobbing, her face buried in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Percival met Miriam's gaze as she wrapped Avery in her arms. "Miriam…"

She knew what he was about to say. Two tributes, she could handle alone. But four? She had mentored three once, during the Twenty-Fifth Games. Could she mentor four? How many more would there be?

But that was all. Richmond stepped away from the reaping bowl. Two extra tributes. "It's my fault," Avery cried softly.

"It's not your fault," said a voice. A quiet, gentle voice – and one that wasn't her own. Miriam looked up to see the fourth tribute – Evander – kneeling beside Avery. "It's not your fault. Think it through. We're up here to replace Anders, not you. If you'd died, too, there would be two more of us. You saved two lives."

Avery looked up, shocked, as the boy placed a comforting hand on her arm. "Really?"

Evander nodded. "Yeah. And now you can have the chance to save another. Will you … Will you be my mentor?"

Miriam almost stepped in and said no. No, of course she wouldn't. Avery was still recovering from her own Games. She was in no condition to mentor anyone.

But then she saw Avery smile.

It was the first time Miriam had seen her smile since she'd left the arena. And that one smile was almost worth whatever tears would follow later if she _wasn't_ able to save Evander's life. Maybe it wasn't the smart decision – on anyone's part – but, for a moment, there was hope in Avery's eyes. And that was enough for her.

"Yes," Avery whispered. "Of course I will."

As the tributes were led away, Percival wrapped an arm around Avery's shoulder. "The three of us, then?"

Miriam nodded. "I can still take two, if—"

Percival shook his head. "No, I'll take the other two boys. You can have the girl and help Avery with Evander."

"Thank you," Miriam agreed, silently hoping the extra tributes were the only surprise the Capitol had in store.

But she was already starting to doubt that.

* * *

**India Telle, 17**

It wasn't fair.

As soon as the Peacekeepers left her alone, India picked up one of the chairs and hurled it against the wall. It felt good – being able to release all the anger she had held in check at the reaping. It wasn't fair. Things were just starting to work out. She had finally managed to escape her overcrowded family when a teacher had taken her in a few years ago. She was excelling in school. She had finally begun to think that maybe – just maybe – there was more in store for her than a life in the slums of District Three.

And now this.

India slammed the chair against the wall again, breaking off one of the legs. Then another. Just as she was about to take another swing, the door opened.

India whirled around, half-expecting her whole family to descend on her. But, instead, only two of her older brothers – Elder and Pierce – stood in the doorway. Elder glanced around, surveying the damage she'd already done. "Good practice, I suppose," he concluded. "But maybe you should save it for the arena."

India couldn't help smiling a little. But only a little. She didn't want to think about the arena. Because tributes in the arena weren't simply going to stand there and let her smash a chair over their heads. Tributes could fight back.

Tributes could kill.

"I … I brought this for you," Pierce said quietly, holding out something in his hand. India held out her palm, and Pierce dropped a necklace into it. A necklace with a white star pendant.

India stared. The necklace had been hers once – a long time ago, when she had simply been the youngest of the Telle children, bullied mercilessly by most of her older siblings. She had lost the necklace years ago; she had been sure one of the others had taken it. "Where did you find it?" she whispered.

Pierce shrugged noncommittally, but Elder didn't mind supplying an answer. "Nymph took it. Sold it to one of the traders in the marketplace. Pierce found it, and we bought it back." He shook his head. "We've been meaning to give it back to you, but we never see you anymore, not since…"

Not since Mrs. Houzer had taken her in. Swept her away from the dull, dreary life that had once been hers. She'd never really given much thought to what she had left behind. Never really missed it. Never thought they would miss her.

But they had missed her – at least these two. Maybe one or two of the others. India swallowed hard as she gave them one last hug before they had to go. Why was it that no one ever realized what they had until it was gone?

It just wasn't fair.

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15**

It wasn't that bad.

Horatio shook his head as the door closed behind his parents. Slowly, he got up and began to pace the length of the room again. Of course it was bad. He was a tribute. A tribute in the Hunger Games. And not just during any year, but during a year with extra tributes.

How many extra?

Horatio took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Trying to work it out. Two tributes to replace Anders from last year. But was that simply because he had refused to fight, or because he had been one of the instigators of the plan? Would the Capitol make a distinction between the two? One for the non-fighters, perhaps, and two for the masterminds?

Or were they all the same in the Capitol's eyes?

Either way, the numbers added up quickly. Twelve tributes had refused to fight. If there were two for each of them – or even two for most of them – that meant nearly double the usual number of tributes.

And half the usual chances.

_Stop thinking about the odds_.

No. No, the Games weren't about the odds. Not really. Nothing in the Games was really up to chance. It was all strategy. Decisions. Plans and schemes, gambits and risks. Just like a giant game of chess.

Horatio fingered the chess piece in his hand. One of the pawns from his very first chess set, old and worn from years of playing. And he was good. He would have been head of the chess club next year.

Would have been.

_Stop it. _It was unnerving how quickly he'd started thinking in the past tense. He couldn't just give up. Couldn't just forfeit the game.

Because that was all it was, in the end – just another game. A deadlier game, to be sure, but the same principles held true for both. Play it safe or take a risk. Win or lose.

Live or die.

Except there were only two players in chess. He could anticipate the moves of another player. Read their expressions, predict what they might do next. But dozens? How could he hope to know what each of them would do? And how could he plan if he couldn't predict? He needed more information.

Horatio sat down quietly, turning the pawn over and over in his hands. He still had time. Time to get that information. Time to plan. Time to think. Time to reason his way out of this dilemma, as he had so many others.

Maybe it wasn't that bad.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15**

It wasn't real.

Aleron sat cross-legged on the floor in a corner of the room. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A joke. Yes, that's what it was. A joke.

And whoever was behind it had incredibly bad taste.

They couldn't do this. The rules of the Games were clear. Two tributes from each district. One male, one female. As soon as someone realized there had been a mistake, they would let him go. They couldn't do this.

And yet everyone else had gone along with it. The other tributes. The mentors. The whole district. No one had said anything. No one had spoken out. No one had done a thing to stop this. They were afraid.

Of course, _he_ hadn't done anything, either. But that wasn't because he was afraid. No, he wasn't afraid. He was … waiting. Yes. Yes, that was it. He was waiting. Waiting for the right moment to voice his outrage. To inform the Capitol that they had made a terrible mistake.

He wasn't supposed to die.

Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing his parents and his sister, Francesca. His mother quickly knelt by his side, followed by his father. Francesca lingered a little ways away.

"We brought your diary," his father offered, holding out the small notebook and a pen. "In case you want it as your … your token."

Aleron nodded. "Might as well. Really, though, I won't need it for long. This is all wrong – someone will fix it. They have to."

That was enough to set Francesca off. "Wake up, Aleron! Just this once, listen! This is for real. No one's coming to save you. You'll have to—" The words caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, then finished. "You'll have to save yourself."

Aleron shrugged. So he would save himself, then. Not a problem. Either way, he would be back here in no time.

Soon, his family was gone, and the Peacekeepers came to take him to the train. One of them eyed his diary. "What's that?"

Aleron smirked. "My token." They wouldn't take it. It wasn't a weapon. It wasn't big enough to hurt anyone with. It was just a diary.

"Only one token allowed – not two," one of the other Peacekeepers growled irritably. "Either the diary or the pen."

Aleron blinked. Stared at the items for a moment, deciding. Then he tossed the pen across the room. The diary was better, anyway. Even if he couldn't write anything else in it, he could always reread what he had already written. That would be plenty.

The Peacekeepers marched him off to the train, but Aleron stumbled behind, lost in thought. Someone would do something. Someone would stop them. Someone.

This couldn't be real.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16**

It wasn't right.

Evander wrapped his arms around his parents, wishing he didn't have to let go. Beside him, his younger siblings, Cora and Asher, were crying, their arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Evander held them all close. He didn't want them to cry. He didn't want to see them upset.

"That was very kind of you," his father said at last, "asking her to be your mentor. I hope it … doesn't end up hurting your chances."

Evander looked away. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't really thought about what it might mean for him once he was in the Games. He had simply been trying to cheer her up. To say something kind.

He'd meant it, of course – the part about it not being her fault. What could she have done? Turned on the rebels sooner? He would still be sitting here – punishment for what Anders had done. She couldn't have changed a thing.

And part of him knew that he would have done the same thing in her place. He – like so many in District Three – had been silently hoping that the rebels would succeed. Hoping their plan would work, that they would have enough support. And, at first, it had seemed that they might win.

Then the executions began.

Evander swallowed hard, trying to imagine what that must have been like for her. What it would be like to see his own family executed, murdered because of him. Tears came to his eyes as he held his family tighter. He wouldn't let that happen. No matter what happened to him in the Games, he wouldn't let them die because of it.

Which meant he would have to cooperate. He would have to play by their rules. He would have to fight.

He would have to kill.

And that was what was so terribly wrong about the whole thing. In order to keep his family safe from retaliation, he would have to kill. Take one life in order to save another. It wasn't fair. It didn't make sense. It was all backwards and upside-down.

It wasn't right.

But it was the way things were. And it was the way things would stay. Last year had proved that much, at least. The Capitol wouldn't break the rules – or even bend them. And anyone who wouldn't play by the rules was an enemy.

He couldn't afford to make himself an enemy.

After only a few minutes, the Peacekeepers came to take his family away. Evander struggled to keep his tears from falling, but, once the others were gone, he buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want any of this.

It was all wrong.

* * *

"_Even if there's a 99 percent probability that they're utterly, hopelessly screwed, folks are much more inclined to hear that 1 percent chance that things are going to be okay."_


	6. District Four: Chosen

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First of all, my sincerest apologies for disappearing for so long. Real life decided to throw me a bit of a curveball, and I've spent the last month or so looking for a new job for next year. But now I'm back, and we're nearing the end of the school year, so updates should pick up again. Thank you wholeheartedly for your patience.

Second, just a reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Lastly, thank you to _Cashmere67_, _SomeDays_, _Lupus Overkill_, _IndigoStarling_, _LokiThisIsMadness_, and _Deuce Ex Machina_ for Mavina, Kendall, Imalia, Auster, Brevin, and Jarlan, respectively.

* * *

**District Four  
****Chosen**

* * *

**Mags Pharos, 49  
****Victor of the 8****th**** Hunger Games**

They had to be ready for anything.

Mags glanced at her fellow victors as the five of them took the stage. Naomi took a seat next to Mags, her gaze cold and hard as always, ready for whatever was about to come. Misha sat beside her – nervous, fidgeting with his hands, trying to ignore the looks he was getting from the crowd. Looks of pity and looks of blame, in equal measure. The more enthusiastic Career supporters blamed him for throwing away District Four's chances last year. But the others…

Mags gave Misha a small smile as he glanced in her direction. She had been one of the others. One of the ones who had hoped that maybe – just maybe – the rebels had a chance of ending the Games once and for all. She hadn't gotten involved directly, but she hadn't exactly tried to stop Misha from carrying out his plan.

His plan. Mags still wasn't sure that it had, in fact, been his plan. But _someone _had organized the rebels, persuaded five of them to volunteer, in three different districts. That was too much to be coincidence. And Misha had the means. Contacts in the different districts. Other victors. Their friends. Friends of friends. He was the natural suspect, especially after he had persuaded District Four's tributes to join the rebels.

And she had done nothing to stop them, because a small part of her had dared to hope they would succeed. Foolish. Naïve. She should have known better. The Capitol had been prepared.

The Capitol was always prepared.

Still, she'd had hope – faint hope, but hope nonetheless – until the executions began. District Three was broadcast first. After that, it seemed, the Peacekeepers in the following districts saw it as their job to try to outdo the senseless brutality of the executions that had come before. Maybe they were under orders. Maybe they thought the audience would get bored – or, worse, numb – if every execution proceeded the same way.

She could still see them – the families of District Four's tributes. Pleading, begging for mercy as they were led to their deaths. Insisting they'd had no part in the plan, that the tributes had acted alone, that they'd had no idea what the rebels were planning.

And the worst part was, it was probably true. They probably hadn't known. The tributes themselves probably hadn't known what they could be talked into, in the name of even the slightest possibility of peace. Freedom. Rebellion. She wasn't sure what Misha had promised them, but it must have been convincing.

And it had cost the tributes' families their lives.

Peacekeepers dragged them from their homes and through the district, but, instead of stopping in the square – the typical venue for executions, though they were rare in Four – they were herded to the shipyards, where they were forced onto ships that lay anchored in the harbor. They were split up, three or four to a ship. There, they were stripped and bound to the mast with thick, coarse ropes, arms wrapped around the wooden beam as if embracing it.

Only once they were all in place did the whipping begin. Whips tore into their exposed backs, legs, and arms as the Peacekeepers circled the masts, striking one and then another until all were torn and bloody.

After they'd had their fill of bloodshed, oil was poured over both the prisoners and the blood-soaked decks, and the ships were set adrift in the harbor. Once they were safely away from land, one of the Peacekeepers set an arrow to a bow, and another set the end ablaze. As the Peacekeeper fired arrow after arrow, ship after ship burst into flames.

She could still hear them screaming.

And she had done nothing to stop it. Nothing to persuade the tributes not to go along with Misha's plan. A plan that she suspected was doomed. A plan she should have known would lead to nothing but bloodshed.

Did that make it her fault?

Mags shook the thought from her head. No, that was too much guilt to place on any one person. There was more than enough blame to go around. Some was hers. Some was Misha's. Some belonged to the rebels. But most of the guilt, most of the blame – that belonged to the Capitol. To President Snow.

But President Snow was dead, Mags reminded herself. Maybe that meant that the worst was over. Maybe Silas – President Grisom – would be more forgiving.

She knew Silas, after all. Many of the victors did. He had only mentored one year, during the 25th Games, but he had never struck her as bloodthirsty or cruel. Maybe things would be different.

Maybe they would be better.

Beside Misha, Kalypso smiled out at the crowd. Trying to be encouraging. To pretend nothing had happened. Trying to move on. Bierce sat beside her, watching intently as District Four's escort, Lydia Sherwin, took her place by the microphone.

The crowd went quiet. Too quiet. For a moment, it was almost as if they'd forgotten that there were volunteers waiting to step forward as soon as Lydia called a name. Things might be different this year, but Naomi had assured her that her two volunteers would come through. That there was always someone willing, someone desperate enough for the chance to volunteer.

Or perhaps crazy enough.

But Mags kept that to herself, as well. The Career system had served District Four's tributes well. And their victors – especially the younger ones – had been a benefit for the district as a whole. Kalypso focused her Career training on those less fortunate, those looking for a way to improve their lives. Bierce had taken a different route, dedicating his time to helping orphans and poorer children learn a trade, rather than training to kill others for a better life, as he had.

Mags smiled a little. So different, and yet so alike. In the end, both of them simply wanted to make others' lives better. Which was what made the Career system in Four different from One and Two, in the end. It wasn't about the killing or the glory or even the wealth that came with being a victor. It was a means to an end. A way of giving teenagers a chance at something better.

But was that enough to make it right?

Mags turned her attention back to the reaping as Lydia reached into the first bowl and drew a name. "Anastasia Bennett!"

"I volunteer!"

Mags couldn't help a small sigh of relief. Naomi had been right; there were still people willing to volunteer, despite everything that had happened last year. The girl who stepped forward from the seventeen-year-old section, however, wasn't exactly what District Four had come to expect from their volunteers. She was tall, fit, and well-tanned, but also quite thin – almost delicate-looking. She hurried to the stage with a smile on a face and a gleam in her bright grey eyes, her long, dirty blonde hair bouncing behind her.

The girl continued to smile as she took her place next to Lydia. Once there, she took a moment to smooth out her long, silver dress before announcing her name as Mavina Perrot. There were a few murmurs from the crowd, particularly the eighteen-year-old section, where quite a few trainees were clearly annoyed that someone younger had been chosen. Mags glanced at Naomi, who merely shrugged at their disapproving whispers. If she had chosen this particular girl to volunteer, there must have been a reason.

Lydia certainly wasn't fazed at all, and moved on to the boys' bowl without hesitation. "Desmond Callahan!"

Sure enough, once again, a loud, "I volunteer!" split the air, this time coming from the eighteen-year-old section. The crowd quickly made way for a boy in a close-cut black jacket, dark green shirt, dark blue jeans, and black shoes. He was tall and muscular, with tanned skin, spiked dark blonde hair, and cold blue-grey eyes.

This time, there were no murmurs from the crowd, no doubt that the right volunteer had been chosen. The boy took the stage confidently, strutting more than walking, and quickly announced his name as Auster Maverick. He didn't finish with any sort of, "and I'm your next Victor" comment, but it was there in his tone and bearing – the assurance that he would be back here in no time.

But it was never quite that simple.

Mags was so busy watching the two shake hands, she didn't notice that Lydia had returned to the first reaping bowl until she drew a name. "As the first replacement for Camille Hendon … Elysia Spicer!"

It took a moment for the crowd to process what was happening – that another tribute had been chosen – but, as they did, there was a clamor in the eighteen-year-old section, and another volunteer raced forward. She was tall and well-toned, with tanned skin, long brown hair parted to one side, and bright blue eyes. Instead of a dress, she wore an oversized brown leather jacket, white shirt, tight black pants, and black boots.

The girl took the stage confidently, eyeing her district partners with a look of immediate distrust. But she saved a particularly nasty look for Mavina, who simply smiled sweetly back. The girl rolled her eyes in disgust and swiped the microphone from Lydia. "I'm Kendall Rios," she announced, leaving the rest unsaid. Kendall Rios, the girl who _should_ have been chosen to volunteer. Kendall Rios, who would surely be District Four's next Victor.

This time, however, Mags was watching Lydia, who quickly reclaimed the microphone from Kendall and approached the girls' bowl once more. "As the second replacement for Camille Hendon … Renae Yorke!"

This time, there was no pause, no moment to react to the sudden change. Several girls raced forward, all thought of protocol forgotten, but it was a girl from the seventeen-year-old section who made it to the stage first. She was tall and lithe, with olive skin and dark brown eyes. Her wavy, dark brown hair hung loose past her shoulders, and she wore a simple blue-grey blouse and dark blue skirt.

Unlike her district partners, the girl didn't look particularly delighted or self-assured. Instead, she simply looked relieved. Grateful that she had made it to the stage first. She smiled as she stepped up to the microphone. "Imalia Grenier," she announced in a clear, confident voice, "and I'd like to thank you for this opportunity."

Opportunity. Mags had to fight to keep herself from cringing. The Capitol had surely meant this as a punishment, not an opportunity. Punishment for the actions of the tributes last year. But taking a punishment and turning it into an opportunity … Well, maybe that was what District Four was best at. The Games were a punishment, anyways – punishment for the rebellion. But, over the years, District Four, along with the other Career districts, had turned them into something else. Something useful. Maybe that same attitude was exactly what they needed now.

Lydia, meanwhile, had returned to the boys' bowl and drawn another name. "As the first replacement for Ricardo Hamlin … Alvin Rosenfield!"

"I volunteer!" This time, the response was immediate, and the eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black pants. He was tall and muscular, with pale skin, blonde hair, and dark brown eyes.

As the boy took the stage, he gave his district partners a nod, and shook each of their hands in turn as he passed. Mavina smiled back politely, while Kendall simply glared, but eventually shook his hand. The other two shook his hand but remained indifferent as the boy stepped up to the microphone and announced his name as Jarlan DuMorne.

Lydia simply nodded and smiled as she drew one more name. "As the second replacement for Ricardo Hamlin … Nigel Crawford!"

For the sixth time, a familiar cry of, "I volunteer!" rang through the crowd. But this time there was no rush to the stage, no pushing and shoving. Maybe the depth of what was happening was finally starting to sink in. Six tributes. Yes, that meant six chances, but there was still only one victor. Only one of these six could win.

Which meant at least five of them would die.

None of this, however, seemed to bother the sixth and final volunteer, who raced up to the stage from the seventeen-year-old section with a smile on his face. He was tall and lean, with pale skin and dark blue eyes. His dark brown hair was combed neatly to one side, but the rest of his appearance wasn't as well-kept. His light blue button-down shirt was wrinkled, his pants well-worn and stained. Clearly, he hadn't come to the reaping with any intention of volunteering.

And why should he have? He had another year, and the volunteers for this year had already been selected. But, like the others, he'd seen his chance and taken it. The boy flashed a mischievous grin at his district partners before announcing his name as Brevin Tolett.

Mags watched, still a little overwhelmed, as handshakes were exchanged and the tributes were quickly ushered offstage. Misha was quietly muttering something about it all being his fault. "Damn right," Naomi agreed, which wasn't helping.

"I can't go back," Misha insisted frantically as he made the connection: more tributes meant more mentors. "I can't. They'll kill me. They'll kill me this time."

Mags had heard him say the same before, of course. During the 25th Games, Misha had been convinced that returning to the Capitol would mean his death. He'd been wrong then … but now? After what had happened last year, no one would want to risk him influencing the tributes.

But was he truly any safer in District Four? If the Capitol suspected his involvement with the rebellion, was it safe to leave him here alone? But what choice did they have? Mags glanced at her fellow mentors. "Us four, then?"

Naomi nodded crisply, and Kalypso quickly agreed. Bierce hesitated for a moment, but then nodded his consent. He'd never mentored before and had been content to stay as far away from the Games as possible once he'd won, but, experienced or not, they would need all the help they could get.

"I'll take Auster and Kendall," Naomi offered, surprising Mags, who had assumed that she would want both of the tributes she'd originally chosen to volunteer. Maybe she was reconsidering her choice.

"I'll take Imalia, then," Kalypso nodded. One of her students, perhaps.

Mags turned to Bierce. "Do you have a preference? I can take two." She'd mentored two tributes alone, after all, before Naomi's victory.

Bierce thought for a moment. "I'll take Jarlan."

Mags nodded. "I'll take Mavina and Brevin, then. Just one more thing." She turned to Misha. "There's something you can do."

"I'm not going back. Please don't—"

"No, it's not that," Mags insisted. "I need you to call the other Victors – in the districts that haven't had their reapings yet. Let them know what's coming. It's not much of an advance warning, but it's something."

"What if they don't believe me?"

Mags blinked. She hadn't thought of that, but it was a valid concern. Most of the other Victors knew Misha, and that he could be a bit erratic at times. "Nicodemus," she decided at last. "Nicodemus will believe you. Call him first, and ask him to tell the others." Part of her hated to ask anything more of Nicodemus, especially after what had happened last year after he'd returned from the Games, but that was exactly the reason she was sure he would believe Misha. Others might assume that this was too extreme, too cruel, even for the Capitol.

Nicodemus knew better.

"All right," Misha agreed. "I just wish—"

Mags nodded. "I know." But the time for wishing was over. It was too late to stop the storm that was coming. Too late to do anything but buckle down and weather it as best they could.

There was no other choice.

* * *

**Mavina Perrot, 17**

They had chosen her.

Mavina still couldn't quite believe it. Out of all the students at the academy, Naomi had chosen her. She was going to be in the Hunger Games. She was going to be a tribute.

No. Not 'was going to be.' She _was _a tribute now – she had been the moment she volunteered. In a way, the Games had already begun. She had already met five of her fellow tributes – more than she had expected. Five district partners. District Four could have an alliance all to themselves, if they wanted.

Mavina smiled as the door opened and her family entered. She was getting ahead of herself. It was still a bit too early to think about alliances. She didn't even know how many tributes there would be – not anymore. Everything had changed.

But not her family. Her older sister, Elira, was all smiles as she threw her arms around her sister. "You're going to be amazing," she grinned.

Mavina beamed back. It was thanks to Elira that she had been chosen in the first place. Naomi had originally chosen Elira, but then, to everyone's surprise, Elira had insisted that Mavina was the better choice, that she deserved her chance at the glory and fame. Mavina held her sister close, more grateful than ever. Elira had given up her chance at the spotlight so that Mavina could finally step out of her shadow. "Thank you," Mavina whispered softly.

As her family turned to go, Mavina thought – for only a second – that she saw something flash across Elira's face. Regret – maybe even remorse. Was she second-guessing her decision? Did she wish she had volunteered, instead?

Mavina shook the thought from her head as Elira's smile returned. She was probably just imagining it. Her sister was happy for her – that was all. Why wouldn't she be? And, when she returned, maybe she wouldn't just be Elira's younger sister anymore. Maybe other people would finally see them as equals.

Mavina twirled a ring in her hand – a simple, silver band that Elira had given her. First, she had to win. She had to focus on that. On fighting. On winning.

And she could. She would. She would make them proud. She would prove it to them.

She would prove they had made the right choice.

* * *

**Auster Maverick, 18**

They had chosen him.

Auster paced back and forth as his family left the room. This was supposed to be his day. They had chosen _him_. This was supposed to be the day the district cheered for him as their next Victor. He was the obvious choice, after all, between him and Mavina, who had only been chosen because her sister had chickened out but didn't want the family name sullied. It was obvious that Naomi had only gone along with it because she was placing her bets on him, anyways.

Now everything had changed. Instead of sharing the spotlight – and his mentors' attention – with one other tribute, now there were five. Five other tributes who would be vying for their mentors' advice, their district's hopes, the sponsors' gifts.

It wasn't fair.

And all because two idiots the year before had decided to join the rebels. They had tipped the balance – those two. If they hadn't left the Careers, the six of them could easily have destroyed the rebels' alliance. If he had only been chosen last year, instead…

But he hadn't been. He was here now. With five other tributes. Tributes who didn't deserve the chance they were being given. He had earned this. He was the best. They … well, they weren't, or else Naomi would have chosen them in the first place.

Auster glanced at the chair, at the two district tokens he had been offered. His father had left his wedding ring, a simple gold band with Auster's parents' names inscribed on the inside. Auster scowled. His father was a businessman, not a fighter. He'd never had the guts to train himself. Why should he think that any reminder of him would be useful during the Games?

The other option was a small bottle of Eva's perfume. Auster opened the bottle his girlfriend had left and gave it a whiff, immediately regretting the decision. The smell was so strong, he could probably spray some in another tribute's face, and they would simply keel over from the stench of it.

Auster shook his head and pocketed the ring. He had no special attachment to his father, but he wouldn't be caught dead with that perfume in the arena. The Games were about strength, not sentiment. He simply had to be strong enough. And he was.

They had made the right choice.

* * *

**Kendall Rios, 18**

They should have chosen her.

Kendall smiled smugly as the door closed behind her parents. Naomi should have chosen her in the first place, not Mavina's cowardly older sister and not the little pretender herself. But now, surely, Naomi would realize her mistake, realize who the stronger contender really was.

And she had always been the strongest contender. She had taken up training at the age of twelve – later than most – but that hadn't stopped her from excelling. At first, it was just for fun, but, after her grandmother's death four years ago, she had thrown herself into training more vigorously. And it felt good – being able to strike back at something – or some_one_ – for the pain she was feeling.

But it was never enough.

No matter how hard she trained, it was never enough. It was never enough to drown out the pain. It was never enough to please herself – or the people around her. It was never enough to make them like her, to make them proud of her, to make her someone whom people would miss if she died in the Games.

Maybe winning the Games would be enough.

Kendall gingerly fingered her necklace – a necklace that held a small, silver coin on the end. It was bent, nearly broken. But it was special. It had been in their family for generations, and it was the last thing her grandmother had given her.

Her grandmother would have been proud. Her grandmother would have cared. Her grandmother had loved her – would still have loved her – whether or not she ever won the Games. But her grandmother was gone, leaving her with only a bent and tattered necklace.

Bent, but not broken.

So she wouldn't break, either. No matter what the Games held, she wouldn't break. She was stronger than that. She was better than that. She would show them. She would show them all.

She should have been their first choice.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17**

They might have never chosen her.

Imalia glanced up as her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Of course we're proud of you. We just weren't quite expecting this, is all. You could have waited until next year."

Imalia nodded. Her mother was right. She could have waited. Hoped that Naomi would pick her next year. But there were no guarantees. No way of knowing that she would have been the one. Her friend Marilla had spent practically her whole life training, but had still come up short of the trainers' expectations this year, and the spot had gone to someone else. As it turned out, getting _into _the Games was as much of a struggle as the Games themselves. Imalia didn't want to risk the same thing happening to her next year.

She wanted to be here. She wanted this chance. So she had taken it. And now no one – not another trainee, not Naomi, not the system – would take that away from her.

And she had done it without cheating anyone else out of their spot. They still had their chance. And she would have hers. Now it was up to her to prove that she deserved that chance.

"Just be careful," her father warned.

Imalia nodded. Good advice, if not particularly helpful. Especially this year. With extra tributes, she would have to be especially careful. "I will," she assured him.

"I brought this," her mother offered, holding out a small, beaded bracelet. "You made it for me when you were little. I wasn't sure what you would want as a district token, so when I saw it, I—"

"It's perfect." Imalia wrapped her arms around her mother. "Thank you." She hadn't really given the idea of a district token much thought herself, but, now that her mother had brought one, it was perfect. A reminder of the little girl she used to be, of how far she had come.

Imalia held her parents close one last time. "I'm coming back." She didn't know that, of course – no more than any other tribute did – but there was really nothing else to say. So, as her parents left, she repeated the words again, quietly, to herself. "I'm coming back."

She just hoped she had made the right choice.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17**

They might have chosen him next year.

Brevin smiled a little as his parents, brothers, and sister left, closing the door behind them. They meant well, but they didn't really understand why he'd done it, why he had to go and volunteer _this _year when they probably would have chosen him next year, anyway. He didn't want to hang everything on a 'maybe' or even a 'probably.' He didn't want to rely on the trainers' decisions – not when he could make the choice himself.

And, after all, why _shouldn't _he volunteer this year? He was as ready as he was ever going to be. Was one more year of training _really _going to make a difference?

Before he could answer that, the door opened, and Zelina entered with a smile on her face. "Well, that was a surprise."

Brevin could feel the beginnings of a blush on his face. "A good surprise?"

Zelina sank down beside him on the bench and planted a kiss on his cheek. "A _very _good surprise. It's what you've always wanted."

Brevin nodded. Was it? Maybe. He'd started training because it had looked like fun, not because he'd particularly wanted to be in the Games. It had been something to do, a way to get out of the house and away from his family for a while. Training had given him a freedom he hadn't realized he had longed for.

And, though it had grown from that, that freedom – that fun – remained the heart of why he had kept training. It was a challenge. A game. Training had always come easily – almost effortlessly – to him. Why should the Games be any different?

_It's what you've always wanted. _Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? Who wouldn't want this opportunity?

Brevin returned Zelina's smile. "Keep an eye on my parents while I'm gone, all right? Don't let them worry too much."

Zelina ran her fingers playfully through his hair, messing up the side-parting he'd worked so hard on. "Of course not. Just hurry back." She plucked one of the butterfly pins from her hair and tucked it in his. "A little something to remind you of home."

Home. That's what he was really leaving – home. _Just hurry back_. And he would. But, in the meantime, he would enjoy the moment. He would enjoy the choice he'd made, because he was more certain now than ever.

He was certain he'd made the right choice.

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18**

He had chosen this.

Jarlan leaned back in his chair. That was the way it should be – people choosing the Games, not the other way around. The Career system was useful, but it was flawed. It had grown too big, too complicated, too difficult to navigate. Getting into the Games in a Career district was now as much about politics as it was about skill or a desire to win. Tribute spots didn't always go to the most skilled or ambitious trainees – Mavina was enough proof of that. It was a game – a complex game of impressing the right people at the right time, of saying the right things to get the trainers to notice you at the expense of others, rather than simply working hard and trusting that it would pay off, in the end.

It was a game he wasn't cut out for and had never wanted to play, but, of course, he had done his best to navigate the system. Tried to train with the right people, make a good impression, and hope things would work out for the best.

They hadn't.

Naomi and the other trainers had chosen someone else. He'd seen Auster around the training center, but he had never particularly stood out to Jarlan. He must have done something right, though – at the right moment, in front of the right people. But even then, even after the decision had been made, Jarlan had continued to train, driven by a blind hope that, somehow, things would turn around.

And they had.

Hard work. Patience. They had paid off, in the end, as they always had. Hard work had brought him from the community home to the training center, and now it had brought him here. He was a tribute. And now he had a new goal. Everything he did now, every step he made, every effort he put in, would bring him one step closer to being not a tribute, but a Victor.

Because, in the end, it was that simple. The Games were merely a series of choices. All he had to do was make the right ones, and everything would work out, in the end. After all, it always had before.

This was simply one more choice.

* * *

"_You'll understand soon enough that there are consequences to being chosen."_


	7. District Five: Strings

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games isn't mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _bobothebear _and _Remus98 _for Liana and Zachary, respectively.

* * *

**District Five  
****Strings**

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot, 47  
****Victor of the 9****th**** Hunger Games**

"We'll be ready for them this time."

Harakuise hid a chuckle as he donned an offended expression. "I wasn't aware that we were unprepared last time."

Camden quickly backpedaled. "I didn't mean – of course the Capitol is always prepared. It's just that I would have—"

"—done things a bit differently," Harakuise finished for her, smiling fondly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Beside them, Jai winked. "Well, there's always room for improvement, wouldn't you say?"

Harakuise nodded over-emphatically. "Oh, absolutely. What would you have done differently, Camden?"

Camden flushed, thought for a moment, then answered. "I would have tried to keep at least one of the non-rebels alive. Having a rebel as a victor – it's embarrassing. It gives all of us a bad name."

Harakuise smiled a little. "Oh, I agree completely – or, at least, I would, if I considered Avery a rebel. The poor girl was young and impressionable, and she was swayed by her district partner. She paid the price for it, but she was never truly one of them. She was simply trying to survive – just like anyone else in the Games."

"And now she's a symbol," Jai agreed. "A symbol that it's never too late to accept the Capitol's offer of forgiveness – but that there will still be consequences."

"Consequences." Camden shook her head. "And yet the architect of the whole affair is still running free."

Harakuise's smile faded. He'd had the same discussion with President Grisom. "Misha is a loose end. But loose ends have a way of being tied up eventually. You have to remember, Camden, not many people in the districts are aware of his involvement in the rebellion. And it's better for everyone if it stays that way."

Jai nodded. "The idea of tributes rebelling in the Games, refusing to play by the rules – that's nothing new. Usually it's just one or two. This time it was more."

Harakuise nodded. "And as long as it's just the tributes – or as long as the districts _believe _it's just the tributes – then you can execute the families, scare the other would-be rebels back into submission, and life goes on as it normally would. But can you imagine how the districts would react if they knew that a _Victor_ was behind the rebellion? The idea that a Victor could turn against Capitol that's provided for them…" He trailed off, letting that sink in.

"But Nicodemus—"

Harakuise waved a hand dismissively. "Nicodemus is no rebel. He acted rashly, yes. But he acted out of mercy – not defiance." He shook his head. "He has a weakness for children."

Jai snickered a little. "Says the man who took in a crying little boy whose sister had just died in the Games."

"And a little girl who lost her parents in a riot," Camden added.

A riot he was partly responsible for. A sister he had killed. But neither of them saw cause to mention that. Harakuise tightened his grip on Camden's shoulder and grasped Jai's hand in his. They had a point. He shared Nicodemus' weakness for children. If Harakuise had been in his position, instead, would he have acted any differently?

He honestly wasn't sure.

Fortunately, Jai came to his rescue. "Maybe Nicodemus isn't a rebel, but what about Misha?"

Harakuise flashed Jai a grateful smile before responding. "He'll be dealt with. Discreetly. Quietly. Better that the districts never make any connection between the rebellion and his death. The deaths of the rebels' families served as enough of a public deterrent. Misha can be dealt with privately."

It was better that way. That was the excuse that President Grisom had used, as well. The truth was far simpler. Whatever he had done, Misha was still a Victor. He deserved to be punished, yes, but he also deserved some measure of dignity, even in death. Given a choice between a humiliating, public execution and a quiet, private one, a Victor deserved the second. Misha deserved the second. Nicodemus…

Harakuise shook the thought from his head as he squeezed Camden's shoulder gently. "And, as our little girl so eloquently put it, we'll be ready next time. The districts might not make the connection, but the other Victors will. Once they realize there are consequences for rebelling – even for a Victor – it won't happen again."

Camden nodded. "Or, if it does, it'll happen without their approval."

"Exactly," Harakuise agreed. "So stop your fretting. Everything's under control. And if your volunteers are as ready as you say…"

Camden grinned. "Oh, they're ready."

Harakuise smirked. "No hesitation? No doubts? No last-minute concerns?"

Camden shook her head. "None."

He doubted that, of course. Anyone with half a brain would have at least a little reservation about volunteering for what would most likely be their deaths. Especially this year. He wasn't sure what Camden had said to convince them to go through with it, but it must have been good.

He knew both of the trainees, of course. He'd met Natalia a few times during training, usually accompanied by her sister. At sixteen, Natalia was the younger of the sisters, but Camden had assured him that she was the better option. And Harakuise was content to leave the decision up to her. Training was her world, and he wasn't about to interfere.

Zach, on the other hand, was a friend of the family, over for dinner at their house or training in their backyard more often than not. He and Camden had grown rather close over the course of his training, and Harakuise had sometimes caught himself hoping – for both their sakes – that she wouldn't be able to persuade him to volunteer. He was a good kid, and to lose him to the Games – for him to _voluntarily _risk his life – just seemed wrong.

Of course, that was how the Career system worked. It was new. It was different. And he would have to get used to it. But that didn't make it wrong. He'd had the same reservations about Camden volunteering – though he'd never told her so. But she had made it out alive. Maybe one of the others would, too.

He wasn't kidding himself, though. This year would be rough. He had watched the first four reapings out of curiosity. Districts One and Two had passed without incident – aside from a little disagreement over District Two's volunteer – but District Three had four tributes, and District Four had six.

Then, shortly after District Four's reaping had aired, he'd received a phone call from Nicodemus. A warning about the change and the extra tributes. There was no reason, of course, for him to expect that District Five would be called upon to supply extra tributes, and Harakuise knew better than to assume the warning was meant solely for him. Nicodemus was probably calling each of the Victors in turn.

Still, he appreciated the sentiment. After what had happened last year, Nicodemus could have chosen to simply bypass District Five out of spite. But spite wasn't really his style. He was no rebel. He hadn't deserved…

_Stop it._

What was done was done. There was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing he could have done about it, anyway. He'd been on his way back to District Five after wrapping up some business in the Capitol when everything had gone wrong. First in District Six. Then in the Capitol, with the sudden death of President Snow. Silas had stepped in before things had gotten too out of hand, but, still…

He couldn't be everywhere.

"I'll see you in a few weeks, then." Jai's farewell shook Harakuise from his thoughts as they reached the square. Jai hugged Camden tightly and clapped Harakuise on the back. "I expect there to be _three_ Victors coming back on that train, you hear?"

Harakuise smiled a little. Jai had said the same thing three years ago, before Camden's Games. And she had done it. She had come home. "We'll do our best," Harakuise agreed.

He and Camden took the stage together, to the delight of the crowd. They cheered once more when Tania and Sabine joined them. Tania looked away – the stage, the ground, her fellow Victors – anywhere but the crowd. But Sabine smiled warmly and even waved a little, flashing a smile at Camden before taking her place beside Harakuise. Harakuise smiled back. Sabine had been happy to relinquish her mentoring position after Camden's victory, but she still dropped by their house in Victors' Village practically every day.

Still part of the family.

District Five's escort, Roderick Kane, was all smiles as he joined them onstage. After the 26th Games, he'd been moved up from District Six, and had been quite content to stay in District Five ever since. There were more experienced Career districts, of course, but Roderick insisted there was something particularly fulfilling about seeing one blossom, seeing a loyal and well-deserving district finally come into its own.

The attitude was contagious; the crowd cheered after both the mayor's speech and Roderick's, then faded to respectful silence as he reached into the first reaping bowl. "Sienna Newell!"

"I volunteer!" cried two voices at once, and the crowd parted around both Camden's chosen volunteer, Natalia Kinney, and a girl Harakuise recognized as her older sister, Liana, in the eighteen-year-old section. Harakuise glanced at Camden. After District Two's reaping, he had wondered how she would handle it if something similar happened here.

But Camden didn't appear concerned. And, sure enough, after a moment of sorting it out among themselves, Natalia reluctantly returned to the crowd, allowing Liana to take her place onstage, grinning from ear to ear. This was her moment.

Harakuise eyed their new volunteer curiously. She was pale and willowy, with dark brown hair that hung to her shoulder blades. Her dress was simple and light grey, with a white ribbon around her waist. She was stick-thin and frail-looking, certainly not what most people would consider Career material.

But it was her eyes that caught his attention, as she gave Roderick a high five and followed it with a series of fist pumps. Her eyes were a bright blue. Expressive. Eager.

Hungry.

Harakuise glanced back at Camden, who was smiling with satisfaction. Harakuise grinned as a surge of pride swept through him. She had been expecting this. She had _planned _this.

And, of course, there was no harm done. No dreams crushed. Natalia could always volunteer next year. Which was probably why she had backed off so easily. She could afford to let her sister have her turn, her moment in the spotlight. She would get her own soon enough.

Harakuise gave Camden a nod. _Well played._ Camden responded with a casual shrug. She'd learned from the best.

"Denver Griffith!"

For a moment, there was silence. Nothing. For that brief moment, Harakuise thought – maybe even hoped – that Zach had decided to back out. But then, just as the fifteen-year-old section was beginning to stir, Zach stepped forward from the seventeen-year-old section. "I volunteer!"

The crowd parted instantly in relief, and he made his way to the stage, wearing a white shirt, black suit with a small blue rose tucked inside one of the pockets, and polished black shoes. He was well-tanned, with blonde hair and bright green eyes. Tall and muscular, he towered over his district partner as he took his place beside her. "Zachary Travelle," he announced, his voice calm but lacking most of the girl's enthusiasm.

Harakuise nodded. At least he had the good sense to be a little nervous. And the crowd was so relieved that _someone _had volunteered that they probably didn't even notice that he was sweating a little, that his hand was trembling ever so slightly as he shook Liana's. But Harakuise noticed. And so did Camden. But her smile never faded. She had been nervous, too. She had been wary. And it had kept her alive.

"I want Zach," Camden said firmly before the tributes had even left the stage. Zach smiled back, but Liana only glared. Camden shot Harakuise a look. _Argue with me._

Harakuise crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "I thought we agreed _I_ would be working with Zach," he protested, even though they had agreed to no such thing. He had assumed from the start that she would want to mentor Zach. "You said—"

"That was when I thought Natalia was volunteering. I'm not working with someone I didn't choose to volunteer. I want Zach."

"Fine," Harakuise grumbled as the tributes were led away. "But I get first choice next year."

"You won't have to mentor next year when Zach comes back a Victor," Camden pointed out cheekily. Then, once the tributes were out of earshot, she practically burst out giggling. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Which one were we motivating?"

Camden shrugged. "Both. Zach needs to know we're behind him. He needs the extra confidence. Liana needs to believe she's our second choice. Then she'll do everything she can to prove us wrong."

Simple. Elegant. Effective. "Nicely done."

Camden gave his shoulder a playful punch. "Learned from the master."

She had. And she had learned well. Well enough to make it through her own Games with both her skill and her wits. Well enough to manipulate two teenagers into volunteering for a fight to the death.

And, hopefully, well enough to bring one of them home.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17**

He was supposed to do this.

Zach gave Amity a little wave as she, Argo, and their parents left. As the door closed, a smile finally found its way to Zach's face. He'd made the right choice. That much was clear now. He was meant to do this. He had always been meant to do this.

Silently, Zach fingered the golden ring that hung on a chain around his neck. His siblings' names were inscribed inside. Argo. Amity. And Roland.

Roland, the brother he had never known. The brother who had been killed in the riots following the 25th Games, before Zach was even born. Camden had lost her parents in the same riots, and it was that connection, that shared loss, that had brought them together. She had lost everything, and, yet, she had somehow moved past it, found meaning, and even gone on to win the Games. After her return to District Five, Zach had sought her out, hoping for advice.

He'd gotten much more than that.

Camden had always been there for him. She'd shared his grief over the family members they'd both lost to the rebels' riots. She'd praised him for having the courage to join one of District Five's openly pro-Capitol movements. She'd been shocked to learn that his best friend, Allison, had been killed at one of their demonstrations, killed by an angry rebel with a piece of piping.

He'd only been ten years old. He hadn't been able to do anything to save her. It was at that point that Camden suggested he start training – not necessarily for the Games, but to learn some basic fighting skills, in case he found himself in a similar position. She'd said it would help him heal – knowing that, next time, he would be able to defend himself and those he cared about.

And it had helped. At least a little. But her friendship, her support – that had helped more. She had been there for him. She had supported him. So when she had suggested that maybe he should volunteer for the Games, after all … How could he say no? After all she had done for him, how could he refuse now?

It had all been leading to this. Everything, from his brother's death to Allison's murder to his friendship with Camden, had all led him to this moment. This choice. And now he was sure.

He was meant to do this.

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18**

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Liana smirked as Natalia entered the room. She had half-expected her sister to be fuming mad. This was supposed to be her day, after all. She had prepared for it. Trained for it. Camden had chosen her.

But Natalia didn't look upset at all. She simply looked confused. "Why didn't you _tell _me you were going to volunteer? I would've let you take my place. We could have saved all the drama."

Liana's eyebrows shot up. It had never occurred to her to simply _ask _her sister to step aside. "You would've done that for me? You were so proud when Camden chose you."

Natalia shrugged casually. "Of course I was. Who wouldn't be? But I have next year, or the year after, if I want. This was your last chance. I'm glad you took it." She smiled a little as she pressed a small, silver pendant into Liana's hand. "Not everyone's out to get you, you know. Try to remember that."

Liana nodded. Maybe she was right. But, in the Games, they _would_ be. Everyone would be out to get her eventually. So wasn't it better to start thinking like that now?

Natalia drew her sister into a hug. "Just … just be careful."

Liana pulled away and took a step back. "You don't think I can do this, either."

"Of course I do," Natalia insisted. "It's just … Liana, only one person comes out alive. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't!" Liana was almost shouting. "I can do this!"

Natalia backed off. "Okay. Okay, you can do this. Just … save it for the arena, okay?"

Liana nodded. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. It just feels like … like no one thinks I can do this. Camden picked you, instead, and no one said a thing. Harakuise doesn't even want to be my mentor."

Natalia cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"_He _said that, before we even left the stage. He wanted to mentor Zach."

Natalia smiled a little. "If you say so. But I saw his face when you volunteered. He was impressed. Even if you weren't his first choice, he'll warm up to you."

Liana shook her head. Of course he would. He was her mentor now – whether he liked it or not. And she wasn't going anywhere. This was all she'd wanted, ever since she and Natalia had started training. She wanted to do this. She was supposed to do this.

She was meant to do this.

* * *

"_He came to you, manipulated you, pulled your strings like you were a puppet. And, as a result, choices you thought were made, were never really choices at all."_


	8. District Six: Break

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Two things. First, I have a favor to ask. Somewhere in the ambiguous world of most people's minds, there's a line between a T rating and an M rating. I'm not always entirely sure where that is, but I feel like I've drifted pretty close to it in this chapter. If you think I've crossed it, let me know, and I'll bump the rating up. (And please let me know _before_ you inform the powers that be that I'm violating the ratings guidelines.)

Secondly, thank you to _BamItsTyler_, _District11-Olive_, _klismaphilia__, necrotizing fasciitis_, _Bigpapi1234_, and _Lazy Owl_ for Presley, Nadine, Cordelia, Paget, Alexi, and Delvin, respectively.

* * *

**District Six  
****Break**

* * *

**Nicodemus Ford, 32  
****Victor of the 26****th**** Hunger Games**

At least now they would be ready.

Nicodemus carefully set the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. _Only a moment_. He'd earned that much, at least. Thanks to Misha's warning, he and the other Victors would be prepared for what awaited them at the reaping.

But being prepared was different than being ready. He wasn't ready at all.

Mentoring two tributes was manageable. For all intents and purposes, he'd been mentoring alone ever since his own victory. And he'd managed. Sometimes he even found it comforting. Healing. Though he'd yet to bring a Victor home himself, mentoring two tributes, giving them a little comfort and guidance in their last days … It helped. It helped make up for his own Games.

But six…

Nicodemus took a deep breath, trying to clear his thoughts. But, every time he did, the pain returned. Constant, jarring agony – always there in the back of his mind, but, whenever he tried to just sit and think, it came bubbling back to the surface. The only way to force it back down again – to ignore it – was to stay busy. But staying busy enough to block the pain was exhausting, which led back to moments like this – moments where he simply wanted to sit and rest for a few seconds.

But a few seconds were all he could afford, because he had to make it to his own district's reaping in time. And he still wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to face them.

He might never be ready again.

Ready or not, though, there was no avoiding this. Nicodemus wasn't sure what they would do if he simply didn't show up for the reaping – as he was quite tempted to – but it certainly wouldn't be good. Especially after what had happened last year. And with extra tributes. Six tributes. He couldn't simply abandon them.

He had a job to do.

He could do this for them. For everyone who had lost someone last year. Every innocent person who had died. Every life he'd been powerless to save.

After the executions in Three and Four were broadcast, it didn't take District Six long to figure out that they would be next. So the family of the twin brother and sister rebels decided to take matters into their own hands. Rather than face whatever horrific deaths the Capitol had planned for them, the parents quietly smothered their three children, then took their own lives.

Nicodemus had never blamed them for what had happened next. After witnessing the executions in Three and Four, how could any parent simply stand by and wait for the same to happen to their children? What they had done was merciful.

But only for themselves.

Robbed of their chance for direct retribution against the five of them, the Peacekeepers rounded up twice as many people at random. Old and young. Men and women and children. Ten prisoners were led to the stage in the center of the district square, where ten large, spoked wagon wheels lay before them. The Peacekeepers chained nine of the prisoners in place at the back of the stage.

The tenth, a young woman who couldn't have been much older than the rebel tributes themselves, was dragged to the front. At first, she fought. Then she began to cry. Nothing did any good. The Peacekeepers stripped away the girl's clothes and, after a struggle, laid her face up on one of the wheels, her arms and legs outstretched along the spokes, her wrists and ankles bound in place along the frame.

Then one of the Peacekeepers stepped forward with a sledgehammer, and the girl began to scream. The screaming almost drowned out the sound of cracking bones as the hammer came down against one leg, then another. Once, then twice, each leg was broken. Then her arms. Her hands and feet, wrists and ankles, elbows and knees. Each was struck in turn, until her body seemed no longer a human body, but, rather, a tangled mess of blood and flesh, splintered bones breaking the skin at odd angles. All the while, the poor girl pleaded for mercy – and then for death. But no one gave her either.

Finally, the Peacekeepers unbound her, rolled her limp body over, and brought the sledgehammer down hard against her back, breaking it in several places. But she was still alive. She was still alive as they turned her face-up again on the wheel and wove her limbs through the spokes, her whole body contorted into an unnatural shape. She was still alive as they bound her tightly to the spokes – not for fear that she might somehow escape, but simply to prevent her broken form from slipping out of place as they hoisted the wheel up onto a pole and fixed it in place above the other prisoners' heads.

She lived for almost twelve hours.

Only after she was dead was another wheel brought forth, and a second prisoner selected. Then, after he had died, a third, and so on. Some lived for hours, some days. Blood dripped down on those still awaiting their turn. Birds and insects fed on the dead and dying alike. Execution after execution, as the Games dragged on.

The ninth prisoner was nearly dead by the time Nicodemus returned from the Games. The Peacekeepers 'invited' their two Victors to come and witness the last execution. Nicodemus held his tongue until he saw the final prisoner – a little boy, no more than five years old. The boy had tears in his eyes, but he made no sound as the Peacekeepers announced the ninth prisoner's death. The child was in shock after the brutality of the others' executions.

And he knew he was next.

Emotionless, the Peacekeepers chose a small wheel – still much too big for him – and dragged the boy forward. Nicodemus tensed as they bound the boy in place, tears starting to spill from the child's frightened eyes. Beside him, Vernon laid a hand on his arm. "Don't interfere. It's what they want. You can't do anything."

But Nicodemus hadn't listened. There _was _something he could do. He couldn't save the boy's life, but he could spare him a torturous death. So as the Peacekeeper lifted the sledgehammer, Nicodemus sprang forward and grabbed the shaft, redirecting the blow. The hammer struck the boy's skull full-force, killing him instantly.

It was over.

Or so he had thought. The Peacekeepers had to keep their pretense of emotionlessness, he knew, but, inside, they had to be thanking him. They hadn't actually _wanted _to bludgeon a little boy half to death and leave him to die slowly, agonizingly, in front of his family and friends. They hadn't actually thought that, somehow, the small child had done something to _deserve _this, that this was somehow _right_.

Had they?

He didn't have much time to think it over, because, before he knew what was happening, one of the Peacekeepers jabbed him in the stomach with a club. Caught off-guard, Nicodemus didn't even have a chance to fight back as they grabbed hold of him and flung him down on top of a second wheel. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles firmly in place along the frame of the wheel as his clothes were torn, ripped, sliced away.

He remembered the cracking sound as the sledgehammer came down hard against his right leg.

He remembered the pain.

Agony. Deep and sharp and brutal. Filling his limbs until every bone was shattered, every joint out of place. Blood. Warm and wet and sticky. He remembered screaming, crying out in pain until his throat was dry and his voice hoarse. Then they untied him, his body too limp to resist at all as they rolled him over. Pain coursed through his back as the hammer struck once, twice, then three times along his spine, shattering it.

Then they turned him face-up again, where he lay helpless to do anything but watch as his arms and legs were twisted, wrenched out of place, woven in and out of the spokes. Thick, coarse ropes bound him firmly to the wheel, but every jolt still convinced him he was going to fall, still sent agony coursing through his body as they fixed the wheel in place above the stage and left him there, on display for all the district to see.

He remembered hanging there, waiting to die, broken and helpless and alone. He remembered the looks of pity from the crowd – pity for him and for the others who hung rotting alongside him. He remembered the pain and the thirst and the longing for death – all of which seemed to drag on for days, but all of which, he later learned, lasted only hours.

He remembered passing out.

He had woken up in the Capitol, with no idea of how or why he was still alive. It was only later that he learned that Silas Grisom – now _President _Grisom – had personally ordered that he be taken down, kept alive, and given the best of care the Capitol could provide, as a symbol of their mercy.

Mercy.

If they were merciful, they would have let him die.

The Capitol surgeons could heal, but they couldn't perform miracles. He would never walk again; his back had been too badly shattered and contorted. His legs were useless, his arms weak and badly twisted, his fingers crooked and clumsy. He had a wheelchair, but the effort it took to wheel himself around was exhausting. So, for the most part, he didn't go far. Truth be told, he hadn't left his house for more than a few minutes at a time since the Capitol had returned him to District Six.

And now he was expected to mentor. To mentor six tributes. Because there was no one else who would. No one else who _could_.

Because it was his job.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in!" Nicodemus called without a second thought. The door was never locked. It simply wasn't worth the effort of going over to unlock it whenever someone came to call. Which wasn't very often, but occasionally Vernon would stagger over when he got particularly drunk. Sometimes he would mistake Nicodemus for one of his sons. But Luke was dead, and Matt and Erik had left him.

Nicodemus never had the heart to remind him, though. So he would pretend to be Luke, or Matt, or Erik, for as long as Vernon needed him to. There was enough pain in the world to go around without reminding Vernon of his. If he had found a way – _any_ way – to forget that pain, even for a moment, then Nicodemus could hardly fault him for that.

But it wasn't Vernon at the door. It was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties. Her chin-length, icy blue hair marked her as a Capitolite. "Phoebe Trenton," she offered before Nicodemus could ask. "District Six's new escort."

Nicodemus nodded. That made sense, at least. A new escort, wanting to make a good impression, certainly wouldn't want the district's Victors arriving late, drunk, or, worse, not coming at all. So she'd come to collect them before the reaping.

Nicodemus mustered a smile. He had no love for the Capitol, but that was no cause to be rude. "Nicodemus Ford."

"Oh, I know," Phoebe assured him. "I came to warn you that there are going to be four extra tributes this year. Two for each of the … the rebels. I thought you'd want to know."

Nicodemus nodded. "Thank you, but I already knew."

Phoebe's face turned a light shade of pink. "How?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I watched the other reapings this morning," Nicodemus lied. No sense involving Misha in whatever mess might ensue when the Capitol realized they'd lost the element of surprise.

To his surprise, Phoebe actually smiled. "Well, then, I suppose the Victors in the other districts already know, as well. Have they told anyone else?"

Nicodemus shrugged weakly. "That's up to them. I just reasoned that anyone who's going to be mentoring extra tributes this year has a right to know more than a few seconds in advance." He eyed Phoebe curiously. "And, apparently, you had the same notion, so thank you for that."

"You're welcome," Phoebe smiled shyly, blushing once more. "Is there … is there anything else I can do?"

Nicodemus blinked, considering whether or not he should ask for her help getting to the square. After a moment, however, he decided against it. He could manage on his own. "Actually, if you could find Vernon – and make sure he actually makes it to the reaping – that would be wonderful. I'd find him myself, but—"

Phoebe nodded eagerly, obviously happy to be useful. "Right away. He'll be there." She flashed him another smile. "And, Nicodemus?"

"Yes?"

"Remember Byron," she whispered, then turned and hurried off without another word of explanation.

Byron. Of course he remembered Byron. Byron was the name of the boy. The boy who was about to be executed. The boy he had spared. The boy he had killed.

But why did she care?

Nicodemus shook his head. It didn't matter. Not right now. Now, he simply had to get to the reaping. Slowly, carefully, he wheeled himself out the door and through the streets. A few people glanced his way – some with looks of pity. Most averted their eyes, not wanting to associate themselves with him.

They remembered.

And how could they not? As Nicodemus reached the square and saw what awaited them there, he froze. There, still fixed in place above the stage, were ten wheels. The bodies were long gone – taken down or simply rotted away, he didn't know – but the blood remained, staining the wheels and the stage beneath them. A few of the poles seemed to be charred black at the bottom, but they were otherwise intact. A reminder.

A warning.

Still a good distance from the stage, Nicodemus froze. One of those wheels had been his. Everything came rushing back in an instant – the pain, the terror, the humiliation.

He had thought he was ready for this. He had thought he could do this. He wasn't. He couldn't. Nicodemus closed his eyes, trying in vain to calm his ragged breathing. Breathe. Just breathe. Maybe it wasn't too late to turn around and go back home…

But suddenly, without warning, his chair began to move again. Nicodemus opened his eyes to see a Peacekeeper wheeling him quickly and none too gently towards the stage. There, a second Peacekeeper lifted him roughly and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs to the stage, where he dumped Nicodemus in front of a chair.

For a moment, Nicodemus simply lay there, catching his breath, fighting the pain. He could see Vernon and Phoebe, already in their places. They glanced at him but dared not interfere – not with the Peacekeepers standing there, just waiting for something of the sort. Nicodemus' gaze strayed to the chair behind him.

Part of him was more than tempted to simply stay where he was. But then he saw Phoebe mouth something. _Get up_. She nodded a little in the direction of the crowd. They were waiting. Waiting to see what he would do.

_Fine_.

Nicodemus gritted his teeth and worked himself into a seated position, then slowly dragged himself to the chair. His arms protested, but he somehow marshaled the strength to pull himself up and into the chair. He nodded slightly in Phoebe's direction as he slumped over, thoroughly exhausted. _All right. I did my job. Your turn._

Phoebe nodded, plastered a perfect smile on her face, and turned to face the crowd. "Thank you, people of District Six, for your warm welcome! I'm your new escort, Phoebe Trenton, and I'm delighted to be here!" She paused, waiting for an applause that never came. Unfazed, Phoebe dipped a hand in the first reaping bowl. "Cordelia Astier!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted, but not quickly enough. Chaos erupted as the girl began to thrash and scream, lashing out at anyone who happened to be close enough. The Peacekeepers quickly moved in, but not before she had wrestled two other teenagers to the ground. One of the Peacekeepers scooped her up, tearing her away from the others and dragging her to the stage. She kicked and squirmed and even bit him, but he didn't let go until they reached the stage, where he dumped her unceremoniously at Phoebe's feet.

Phoebe offered her a hand, but the girl swatted it away and scrambled to her feet on her own. For a moment, Nicodemus was afraid she might try to run again, but, after glancing at the Peacekeepers who stood poised at either side of the stage, the girl lowered her light blue-grey eyes, resigned to her fate.

Only then did Nicodemus get a good look at her. She was about average height and a bit willowy, with a few freckles and a tangled mess of long, red hair. Her light cream-colored dress was wrinkled and torn from the struggle, her knees and elbows scuffed and scraped.

She looked like a tribute already.

"Paget Astier!"

Nicodemus cringed as the fifteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a boy who was undoubtedly the girl's brother. Twin, probably, from his appearance. The boy had the same red hair, the same blue-grey eyes, the same pale skin. He quickly clenched his fists and made his way to the stage, where he slipped a hand into his sister's and glared out at the crowd, his expression cold and sullen.

Nicodemus watched wordlessly as the boy's anger simmered, just below the surface. It was hard to blame him. This was too much to be coincidence. Rigged reapings were far from unheard of, especially in Six. Recently, more and more tributes were 'coincidentally' those the district wouldn't mind being rid of. Pickpockets, drug dealers, prostitutes. Some were criminals, some simply considered troublemakers by those in authority.

For the most part, people went along with it, because it made the reaping safer for those who, in their minds, didn't deserve it. But the implication, the idea that _these _teenagers – these children – had somehow done something to deserve being sent to their deaths … It sickened him.

Phoebe's voice interrupted his thoughts as she reached into the girls' bowl once more. "As the first replacement for Taryn Renshaw … Presley Delon?" Phoebe's voice faltered for a moment, as if surprised by the name she was reading. Her eyes scanned the crowd with apprehension – almost fear.

All eyes turned to the thirteen-year-old section, where Peacekeepers surrounded a small girl in a grey wool sweater with a black collar, a black skirt, white stockings, and black shoes. But it was the handcuffs that caught Nicodemus' eye as the girl took her first steps towards the stage, with two Peacekeepers on either side.

The girl herself was smiling contentedly, her grey-blue eyes alight with something that was almost excitement. Her strawberry-blonde hair was lopsided, as if she hadn't been willing to sit still long enough for someone to cut it properly. She was still smiling as she took her place onstage, curtsying towards the audience. "Hello! My name is Presley!" Her voice was hollow and airy, almost a whisper.

As one of the Peacekeepers took a step towards Nicodemus, it was all he could do to keep from shrinking away. But the Peacekeeper simply held out a small key, looking from him to Vernon and back again. Nicodemus reached out a hand, and the Peacekeeper dropped the key into his palm. As Nicodemus' crooked fingers closed around it, the Peacekeeper chuckled a little. "Careful. She bites."

Nicodemus clenched his teeth. Did they think that was funny? After what they had done to him, they expected him to be scared that a little girl might bite him?

But, of course, he said nothing of the sort as Phoebe reached for another slip. "As the second replacement for Taryn Renshaw … Nadine Olliston!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a dark turquoise blouse and a black skirt. For a moment, she simply stood there, shocked. She took one step forward. Then another. Meeting her friends' eyes. Trying to look brave. Trying not to cry.

But, after a few more steps, the façade dropped, and the girl burst into tears. Peacekeepers were at her side in an instant, dragging her to the stage and dumping her alongside the others. For a moment, she simply lay there, weeping, trying to stop the tears, until Phoebe knelt down beside her. The girl cried into the escort's shoulder for a moment before allowing Phoebe to help her to her feet.

Perhaps an inch or two taller than Presley, Nadine still looked small. Her skin was pale, with a somewhat reddish tint. Her straight, bright red hair hung past her shoulders, but even the locks that hung around her face did little to hide the tears that still fell from her grey-green eyes.

After a moment, Phoebe managed to disentangle herself from the little girl and made her way back to the boys' bowl. She forced a smile as she drew another name. "As the first replacement for Turner Renshaw … Delvin Flynn!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a well-worn blue jacket, stained blue shirt, and faded grey pants with holes at the knees. For a moment, shock colored the boy's expression, but his face quickly hardened as he took the stage, his fists clenched and his jaw set.

He was only about average height, but he still towered over his four younger district partners. His shaggy dark brown hair hung loose and tangled. His skin was sickly pale, his blue eyes dull and tired. Despite this, he had a few muscles, and his body was lean. Nicodemus could see a few scratches on his cheeks and a bruise over his left eye. He'd clearly been in a scrape or two.

Nadine took a step away from him, and Cordelia and Paget looked the other way, but Presley simply smiled up at her new district partner. "Welcome to the show."

Delvin didn't seem to know what to make of that, so he simply turned his attention back to the audience as Phoebe drew one last slip. "As the second replacement for Turner Renshaw … Alexi Merista!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and black pants. The boy stood there for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief, staring at the five tributes already onstage. At last, he took a few hesitant steps forward, but then he stopped, still shaking his head.

Finally, one of the Peacekeepers grabbed his arm roughly and began to drag him towards the stage. That seemed to snap him out of it, and he stumbled forward, barely keeping up with the Peacekeeper but managing not to fall. Once onstage, he took his place beside Delvin without protest.

He was a little shorter than Delvin, with caramel-colored skin, curly black hair, and deep brown eyes. There were tears in his eyes as he glanced out at the crowd, then over at Phoebe. Six tributes. His gaze sent a silent, pleading message. _Please let that be all_.

Phoebe nodded. Six tributes. "Shake hands, everyone!"

A few clumsy handshakes ensued as Presley tried to shake hands with everyone at once despite her handcuffs. Cordelia and Paget lingered at the edge of the group. Delvin eyed Alexi curiously as the boy eagerly shook Presley's hand. Nadine watched, unsure, waiting for some direction. Cordelia edged her way back towards Nicodemus, maybe hoping for some comfort or protection.

He wished he had some to give. Wished there was something he could do. For her. For any of them.

Maybe there was something. A little thing, but something, nonetheless. "Presley!" he called softly, and the girl came padding over, eyeing him curiously. The crowd went silent as he beckoned her closer. Once she was close enough, he reached out with clumsy fingers and unlocked her handcuffs.

Presley cocked her head a little as the cuffs clattered to the stage. "You're not … afraid of me?"

Nicodemus considered that for a moment. If the girl truly wanted to harm him – handcuffs or no – he wasn't in much of a condition to resist. He never would be. But what could she do to him that hadn't already been done? And, after all, she'd made no move against him. Against any of them. "No," he said quietly, placing a shaky hand on the little girl's shoulder. "I'm not afraid of you."

"_We're_ not afraid of you," a girl's voice echoed, and Cordelia held out her hand. Presley shook it gladly as the other tributes gathered around Nicodemus.

One by one, he shook hands with each of them, taking in their names, their faces, their tears, their terror. Six tributes. In a few weeks, at least five of these children would be dead. He couldn't change that. He couldn't save them all. But he could give them a little comfort, a little reassurance – if only for a moment – that they weren't alone.

It was only a brief moment, because the Peacekeepers quickly led the tributes away. Nicodemus leaned back, gripping the arms of the chair tightly, forcing the pain back down – just for a little longer. "Nice going, Nic," Vernon mumbled, his speech slurred by whatever he'd already had to drink. "Ya let a murderer loose." He shook his head. "Of course, I suppose you wouldn't know. Ya missed all the … fun."

Nicodemus glanced from Vernon to Phoebe, then back again. Part of him didn't want to ask. To pry. But didn't he have a right to know what he was getting into?

Fortunately, Phoebe stepped in. "It happened while you were … away. A boarding school—"

"Orphanage," Vernon put in. "Call a spade a spade. Orphanage, all burned down, the headmaster murdered. And his wife. And two … no, three, teachers?"

"Three," Phoebe agreed. "When the Peacekeepers investigated, there she was. In a pool of blood. Giggling."

Nicodemus nodded. "And the Peacekeepers—" They certainly hadn't thought twice about killing Byron, who had done nothing wrong at all. What had stopped them this time?

"Oh, they wanted to kill her on the spot," Vernon assured him. "Half the district, too. But I had a better idea. Told 'em to reap her, instead."

Nicodemus clenched his fists tightly. He had suspected for a while now that Vernon was behind the rigged reapings. He hadn't wanted to believe it. But it made sense. His son had been claimed by the Games. If he could ensure that those who were reaped in the future were those who 'deserved' it, instead … It made sense. It was terrible, but it made sense.

"An' now here she is," Vernon finished, shaking his head impatiently. "And you let her loose, just like that."

Nicodemus shook his head. "So maybe she's a murderer. So are we, Vernon – and that's exactly what they'll all be, soon enough, if they want to come home."

Vernon shrugged. "Sounds like you've got it covered, then, Nicky." He rose unsteadily. "If you need me, I'll be…" He glanced around, maybe looking for the train. "That way," he decided, stumbling in the wrong direction and off the stage.

Nicodemus cringed. He would get no help from Vernon – not this year. Six tributes, and they were all his responsibility. Six…

He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice Phoebe until she was at his side. "Let's get you offstage," she suggested. "May I…?"

Too tired to protest, Nicodemus nodded, expecting her to ask a Peacekeeper or two to help. But Phoebe simply slid an arm around his shoulders and the other beneath his knees. "Sorry," she whispered, anticipating the pain that coursed through his body as she lifted him from the chair. But she was gentler than the Peacekeepers would have been, and carried him steadily off the stage. "You're lighter than you look," she offered as she eased him into his wheelchair.

It was probably true. He was lighter now. Light and weak and broken. Or so they would think. So he would let them think. Let them think they had broken him. But he was still alive. He was still here.

And he had a job to do.

* * *

**Cordelia Astier, 15**

They still hadn't broken him.

Cordelia finally let the tears fall from her eyes as she and her brother held each other close. He was shaking, too, but he managed to hold himself together as she buried her face in his chest. He'd always been the stronger one. The one who would stand up for himself. She'd secretly envied that about him.

He deserved to make it home.

Chances were, of course, that neither of them would. It was no coincidence, after all, that they were here. They hadn't been reaped because those in authority thought they would have a shot at winning. They had been reaped so that they would die.

They would die. Just like their mother. Lynched and burned when they were only nine years old because a mob accused her of witchcraft. They'd been known as the "witch's children" for years, but when a body turned up in the streets, drained of blood, without any visible wounds, the mob needed someone to blame. She and Paget had been sent to live with their aunt and uncle, and Cordelia had dared to hope that would be the end of it.

The end of magic.

But Paget was undeterred, and kept studying their mother's books in secret. For her part, Cordelia did her best to avoid attention, but it followed them, anyway. Other children would taunt them, pelt them with garbage. One night, they had tied her to the fence and shaved her head like the district's criminals. It had been hours before they had grown bored with the sport and left. Paget had come to cut her down. He'd held her then and comforted her.

Just like now.

But this was different. There was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he could do to save her. They were both going to die, and it was all her fault.

She had never meant to start the fire. She had been careless. Upset. A group of older teenagers had threatened to string her up on one of the wheels above the stage in the square and leave her there to die. She had only meant to burn the wheels, so that they couldn't. She hadn't meant for anything to happen.

But the fire had gotten out of control, and that was the excuse everyone needed. Even their aunt and uncle agreed that they should be reaped. It was her fault. Her fault they were going to die.

Her fault they were already dead.

* * *

**Paget Astier, 15**

They had already broken her.

Paget held his sister close as she cried into his shirt. She seemed so small now. So helpless. So broken.

It wasn't her fault, of course. She had blamed herself, he knew, ever since the fire in the square. But that was simply an excuse. Anything else – any small incident, any complaint – would have served just as well. Anything that could be blamed on the witch's children. Any excuse to send them to their deaths.

They were afraid. People were always afraid. Afraid of anything they couldn't explain, couldn't understand, couldn't tolerate. And it didn't take much for that fear to turn to rage. To hatred. To destruction.

Paget clenched his fists. They wanted to destroy him. Him and Cordelia. But he wouldn't let them. He would destroy them, instead.

And he would start with his district partners.

Perhaps it was a good thing – having extra tributes this year. Any other year, he and Cordelia would be the only tributes from Six. He wouldn't have the chance to strike at those truly responsible: the people of his own district. But this year, there were four others.

It was a terrible thing to think. But they deserved it. Maybe they weren't personally responsible, but their parents, their siblings, their friends … Everyone who had stood by while their mother was killed, everyone who had done nothing while he and his sister were attacked, beaten, humiliated. They were all responsible. They all deserved to die.

Every single one.

The thought brought a smile to Paget's face as he held Cordelia closer. She wouldn't understand. She had always been soft-hearted. Always made excuses for their attackers. They didn't understand. They didn't know any better. They were afraid.

So he would give them a reason to be afraid.

The whole district already thought they were monsters. It wouldn't be long before word reached the Capitol. Maybe the other tributes would target them. Maybe even the Gamemakers would. It was bound to happen, anyway. So maybe it was better to accept it.

Maybe it was better to embrace it. Better to be the monsters that everyone thought they were, anyway. Maybe it would be enough to keep them alive.

Or maybe they were already dead.

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13**

She had nothing left to lose.

Presley looked up attentively as the door opened and Dr. Loomis entered. Immediately, the doctor pulled up a chair and sat down across from Presley. "I was afraid this might happen," Dr. Loomis admitted. "Afraid this might be the reason they wanted you kept alive. Maybe I should have prepared you for this, but I thought … I thought they might wait a few years. Until you were older. To send you into the Games now…"

Presley shrugged agreeably. "It's all right, Doctor." It wasn't as if she had anything left to lose. She had lost everything – including her right to live – that night. The night she had finally struck back against those who had wronged her. Abused her. The headmaster with his false smiles and his presents – one of which, a pink bow necklace, she still wore around her neck. His wife, who had always been jealous of the attention her husband gave Presley. The other teachers, who knew and did nothing.

None of her fellow students had been permitted to see her since then. But, if they could, she knew, they would thank her. No one had been sorry to see the orphanage burn.

But she hadn't done it for them. She had done it for herself. Her life had been forfeit that night, but it didn't matter. She had done what she had set out to do. She had won.

And maybe she would win again.

"Presley?" Dr. Loomis leaned forward, and she gave him her full attention. He was one of the few people who had earned it – her respect, her attention. "Everything I've told you this past year – everything about channeling your emotions, finding non-violent ways to deal with your pain … Once you're in the arena, I want you to forget it. Every word."

Presley nodded. "Of course, Doctor."

"I mean it, Presley. There are going to be … I don't even know how many other tributes. If any of them know who you are – what you did that night – you're going to be one of their first targets. You're already a killer; that makes you dangerous."

"He didn't think I was dangerous," Presley noted, rubbing her wrists. It was the first time in almost a year that she had been free from any sort of restraint. "He let me go. Why?"

Dr. Loomis thought for a moment, then offered his professional assessment. "Because he figures he has nothing left to lose."

Presley nodded. She could understand that. She knew what it was like to have everything taken away. Hope. Trust. Dignity. There was nothing more they could take from her that hadn't already been ripped from her grasp.

There was nothing left for them to break.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18**

He had too much to lose.

Delvin closed his hand around the gift his sister Megan had left him: their mother's wedding ring, attached to a necklace that Megan had woven herself. Their mother, her mind and body addled by her morphling addiction, had been too weak to even come and say goodbye. Megan had been crying, begging him to do his best to come home.

And, of course, he would. He would try his hardest. But standing there onstage, looking at his district partners – five of them – he knew the odds. And they were bad. There were more of them. And only one of him.

Delvin clenched his fists even tighter. He couldn't afford to start thinking like that. They needed him. His mother. His sister. They needed him.

They would always need him.

He needed to do this. That was what he had told himself years ago when he had started pickpocketing wallets and handbags just so that his family could survive. It was what he had told himself when people paid him money for odd jobs, not all of which he was comfortable at first. But he needed to. His family needed him to.

So when he and his friends, Lenitsky and Sasha, were asked to collect a ransom, or pick up a payment, or deliver a beating when someone failed to come through on a deal, he no longer questioned. No longer cared. Maybe he had a bad reputation, maybe he and his friends were unwelcome in the district's more 'respectable' areas, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Because his family needed him.

And now they needed him to do this.

Now they needed him to kill.

Delvin turned the wedding ring over in his hands. In all the jobs he'd been asked to do, all the fights he'd gotten into, all the beatings he'd delivered, he'd never been asked to kill. Never been pushed that far. Maybe the thought should bother him.

But it didn't. It didn't matter. It was just one more job. Just one more thing he had to do if he wanted to survive. If he wanted his family to survive.

And he did. That mattered more than anything. More than other people's lives. More than his reputation. More than his own conscience. Every rule he'd ever had, every line he thought he'd never cross, had already been shattered.

There was nothing left for them to break.

* * *

**Nadine Olliston, 14**

She didn't deserve this.

Nadine did her best to hide her tears as the door opened and her parents entered, followed by Uriah, Adalie, and Emmy. Her mother pulled Nadine close as her father wrapped his arms around them both. Her younger siblings gathered around the three of them. "It's not fair," her mother whispered.

Nadine swallowed hard. She wanted to say something brave. Something comforting. Something that would make them feel better. But the truth was that it _wasn't _fair. She hadn't done anything to deserve this. She wasn't a criminal. She wasn't a murderer. She wasn't a witch.

Nadine held her family close. She wasn't sure which she was more afraid of: the other tributes, or her own district partners. She didn't know any of them personally, but she knew the Astier twins by reputation, and the Hyde Boarding School Massacre was common knowledge. The older boy she didn't know, but he seemed tough. Hardened. The other boy … maybe she could trust him.

No. No, she couldn't trust anyone. Not once it came down to it. Only one of them could come home. One out of…

Forty-eight, probably. That would make sense. The extra tributes had been chosen in pairs to replace the two rebel tributes from last year. There had been twelve of them. Twenty-four extra tributes.

Nadine could feel the tears welling in her eyes again. Twenty-four extra tributes. But still only one of her. Not a fighter. Not a killer. Just a girl who wanted to come back to her family.

Just a little girl who wanted to live.

_Okay._ Okay, she could use that. Nadine closed her eyes. She was just a little girl. She didn't deserve this. And her district would see that. The Capitol would see that. A pair of witches. A murderer. Maybe she couldn't match their intrigue or flare, but, in the end, District Six didn't want any of them coming back.

They would want her back.

Would that be enough? Maybe not. Not on its own. But it was a start. It was something. And, at the moment, it was all she had. Something she could hold onto. She had people who loved her. People who wanted her to come home. They could rip her away from those she loved, but they would still love her. She would still love them. That was one thing they couldn't change.

One thing they could never break.

* * *

**Alexi Merista, 16**

They didn't deserve this.

Alexi shook his head, finally letting his tears fall as the door closed behind his family. They didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve to lose him. He didn't deserve to die. None of them deserved this.

The problem was, of course, that none of the other tributes deserved it, either.

There were people who would disagree with him, he knew. People who would say that the others – or certainly some of them – deserved whatever was about to happen to them. But there were things that no one deserved, no matter what they had done, or what they might do in the future.

No one deserved the Games.

Alexi swallowed hard, choking back tears. Last year, he had hoped that things would change. So many people had. Most of them wouldn't admit it now, of course. They would rather pretend they had known what would happen. Pretend that they had said all along that the rebels were doomed.

They would rather pretend it had never happened.

But, as terrible as the Games had been last year, as terrifying as the consequences had been, part of him didn't want to forget. Part of him wanted to hold onto that small, faint hope that things would change. That things would get better.

But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to come home. He couldn't say any of what he was thinking now, because even the smallest hint of rebellion in the Games would mean certain death.

Alexi took a deep breath. He wasn't a rebel. Not really. He just wanted to hope. He just wanted to believe. To believe that something better was possible. That didn't make him a rebel.

Did it?

_Okay. Okay, just think. Just focus._

He couldn't worry about the other tributes now. Or his family. Or anyone else in District Six. They didn't deserve what was happening, but neither did he. He didn't deserve to be here. But here he was. And now he had to focus on getting home.

And, in order to do that, he would have to fight. He would have to kill.

Alexi buried his face in his hands. He'd never really thought about killing anyone before. He'd barely thrown a punch in his life. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready at all.

One thing at a time. _Just find one thing you can do_. One thing. His district partners. He could help them. He could get to know them. Maybe even protect them. For a little while.

Alexi smiled a little amid his tears. Yes. Yes, that was it. They could take him away from his family. His friends. But there were still people he could help. People he could protect. He still had the strength to help others, to care for them. That was one thing they couldn't take away.

One thing they could never break.

* * *

"_Everything breaks if you apply the right force."_


	9. District Seven: Nothing

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM m if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _jakey121_, _Blue Eyes Arch Angel_, _Aileen's feather_, and _Call Me Fin _for Audra, Domingo, Fallon, and Ciere, respectively.

* * *

**District Seven  
****Nothing**

* * *

**Casper Hensley, 31  
****Victor of the 29****th**** Hunger Games**

"We have to tell people."

Casper glanced up as Kurt continued. "They have to know before the reaping. Can you imagine what'll happen if they don't? The people will be outraged. They'll—"

"They'll do what?" Freda shrugged. "Grumble? Whisper to each other about how unfair it is? Go back to their homes and dream of rebellion?"

Casper leaned back on the couch and slipped a hand into Hazel's. Kurt and Freda had come over to see him before the reaping, as they always did. It was the last time they would see him for a few weeks, and they wanted to make the most of it. But then Hazel had arrived with a warning from Nicodemus: There would be two extra tributes this year, to replace the tribute who had joined the rebels.

Two tributes to replace Colette.

He and Hazel had tried to persuade her. Tried to convince her that the rebels' plan would never succeed. But she was only fourteen. She was afraid. She had wanted to hope. She had wanted to believe. She had wanted to stop the Games – and she had wanted to do it for her three brothers, so that they would never have to face the arena.

And a part of him had wanted to believe she was right. That part had won out until the executions had begun.

Kurt shook his head. "What if they do more than that? What if they actually riot?"

Freda sighed. "They won't. They'll do exactly what they did last year: Nothing."

Casper looked away. The worst part was, she was right. When Colette's family had been executed, there had been no riot. No protest. Not a murmur of dissent. The executions in Three, Four, and Six had served their purpose. They had frightened the districts into submission.

So when the first prisoner in Six died, and the Peacekeepers came for Colette's family, there was no struggle. The Peacekeepers took them all. Colette's parents. Her sixteen-year-old brother, Terrence. Her little brothers, Maxim and Myron, thirteen and ten. Her grandmother. Two aunts. An uncle. Five cousins, the youngest only seven years old. Everyone she cared for.

Everyone she'd wanted to save.

The Peacekeepers herded them to the edge of the forest, to a line of tall, thick-trunked trees. There, they unchained Terrence, handed him an axe, and instructed him to chop down one of the trees.

Confused and fearful for his family, surrounded by Peacekeepers with their whips ready, Terrence did as he was told. He quickly felled the tree, then stepped back, waiting. And when the Peacekeepers ordered him to remove his boots and his socks, he did so without complaint.

But when two of the Peacekeepers lifted him onto the stump of the tree he had felled, Terrence began to understand. He kicked and thrashed, but was quickly subdued. Two Peacekeepers held him in place as a third produced a hammer and a pair of long, metal spikes. He began to scream as they hammered a spike through one foot and deep into the rough wood of the stump. Once his other foot was nailed in place, they bound his hands with a rope, then cast the other end over a branch of the next tree, high above his head. They pulled it taut, his arms stretched as far as his body would allow, and tied off the rope.

With their first victim immobilized, one of the Peacekeepers busied himself with stripping away Terrence's clothing, slicing here and ripping there until he stood naked and helpless on bare, bleeding feet. Meanwhile, a second Peacekeeper handed the axe to Maxim and directed him to a second tree, some twenty yards further along the treeline.

At first, knowing what was coming, Maxim refused to take his turn. But then the Peacekeeper turned his whip on Terrence's exposed back, explaining that he would continue until the tree was felled. Tears in his eyes, Maxim swung, and, once the tree was down, he was strung up the same way, hanging by his hands, bare feet nailed in place on the tree stump, stripped naked and whipped mercilessly until the next brother had felled his tree.

So they continued, slowly making their way along the treeline. A few of the younger prisoners had difficulty felling their trees, but, with the whip turned on their loved ones' backs, each of them managed it, in the end. Colette's grandmother wept loudly as her youngest granddaughter was strung up beside her. Weeping quickly turned to begging – begging that the Peacekeepers would simply kill them quickly.

Suddenly, a young man at the edge of the crowd rushed forward. Whether he meant to try to cut the prisoners down or simply fulfill the old woman's request for a quick death, Casper didn't know. No one would ever know, because, as soon as he laid a hand on one of the prisoners, the Peacekeepers struck.

This time, the Peacekeepers felled the tree themselves – perhaps believing he might allow one of the prisoners to be whipped to death rather than fell his own. He was still hurling curses at the Peacekeepers as they strung him up alongside the others, but a few lashes quickly silenced him. The Peacekeepers turned to the crowd, waiting. Daring anyone else to step forward.

No one did. The message was clear. The Peacekeepers left only one guard with the prisoners, patrolling up and down the treeline. But one was enough. People passed by on their way to and from the forest, but no one came near. Not when the prisoners began to beg for water. Not when they began to beg for death. Occasionally, the Peacekeeper on patrol would whip one or another of the prisoners, but, mostly, they simply hung there, exposed, humiliated, waiting to die.

And, one by one, they did. Colette's grandmother died the first day, along with the youngest of the children. On the second day, the rain came, relieving the prisoners' thirst but prolonging their deaths. Rain washed their blood to the ground as the Peacekeepers gave each of the living a sound lashing – but not enough to kill them.

Gradually, the dead bodies drew the attention of animals. Birds. Rodents. Insects. Peacekeepers kept the larger predators away, but were content to let the rats, crows, and maggots feed on the decaying flesh. The dying cried out in agony as their wounds were infested, their eyes pecked out, their flesh torn away. One by one, they were claimed by infection, blood loss, exposure, thirst, and sheer exhaustion.

Colette's father was the last to die, only minutes after Colette's own death in the Games. Casper was almost glad that Colette hadn't been the first to accept the Capitol's offer to let one of them live. To come home and learn that her family had been so cruelly executed … It would have broken her.

Just as it had broken the spirit of District Seven. Freda was right. There would be whispers and grumbling at the reaping when two extra tributes were called. But there would be no riot. There would be no outrage. There would be only despair.

Hazel shook her head. "Tell them or keep it secret – it makes no difference. What can they do? What can anyone do?"

Casper wrapped an arm around Hazel's shoulders. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong. That there was something – anything – they could do. That they _could _make a difference.

But Hazel was right. Two extra tributes would enter the Games, regardless of anything they did. They were powerless.

Casper turned to Kurt and Freda. They were looking to him for some sliver of hope. That was what he was supposed to represent, after all. He was a Victor. One of the few who had made it out of the Games alive. Living proof that anything was possible.

That was what he was supposed to be.

But he wasn't. He felt eighteen years old again. Helpless. Helpless as he had cradled his only ally in his arms, powerless to do anything as the life slowly drained from Lydia's body. And now her parents were watching him with the same helplessness. They wanted to do something. He wanted to do something. But there was nothing – _nothing_ – that they could do.

"Tell them," Casper decided at last, nodding to the old man and woman who had taken him in as their own after the Games. His own family was distant. Reluctant to even talk to him. But he was all that Kurt and Freda had left of Lydia. And they were all he had left of the first real friend he'd ever had. They were family now.

"Tell them," he repeated. "Tell everyone you can before the reaping. But keep quiet about it. Try not to let the Peacekeepers know."

Kurt and Freda nodded and hurried off. "Not much point," Hazel noted once they were gone.

"They deserve to know," Casper sighed.

"I meant there's not much point in being secret about it. The phone lines are tapped. The Capitol knows Nicodemus called me. They could have cut the call off, but they didn't. They know there's nothing we can do."

"I know," Casper agreed. "I just want them to be careful. You know how the Peacekeepers have been ever since…"

Hazel looked away. She knew. Since Colette's family's execution, the Peacekeepers had been like a child with a new favorite toy. Hangings and firing squads seemed merciful now, but they were a thing of the past. Any execution now earned a stump at the edge of the forest, the bodies left in place to rot long after the unfortunate victim was dead.

Even for lesser crimes, the prisoners were still strung up, nailed, whipped, and left to hang there for a few hours before the Peacekeepers allowed their families to take them down and nurse them back to health. A year ago, Casper would have doubted that the Peacekeepers would punish an elderly couple for spreading rumors about extra tributes during a reaping. But now…

It was better to be careful.

For a while, the two of them simply sat there, silent, perhaps hoping to wake up and find the past year had been a dream. But, instead, the minutes ticked steadily by, bringing the reaping closer and closer. "We should go," Hazel said at last.

That was all that needed to be said. The pair headed for the district square, where a crowd had already gathered. Casper spotted Kurt and Freda at the back of the crowd, silent, their arms around each other. They had no remaining children, and no grandchildren. They had no stake in the reaping about to take place. But they wept silently, nonetheless. For the child they had lost to the Games. For the families who, though they didn't know it yet, would face the same loss this year.

The crowd was silent as Casper and Hazel took the stage. Silent as their escort, Ebony Guthram, took her place beside them. She was still smiling, but her smile had none of its usual cheer. This year, it was forced. She didn't want to be here, in a district whose tribute had chosen to rebel. The people of the district didn't want to be here, in a district where the bodies of the dead marked the treeline. None of them wanted to be here.

But here they were.

Casper was almost sure he heard Ebony sigh as she dipped her hand into the first bowl and drew a name. "Audra Trevaille!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a cream-colored dress, white stockings, and beige shoes. The girl's face was pale as she took a few steps forward. Then a few more. Her hands clenched tightly into fists, but she kept walking, and, eventually, made it to the stage, tears in her eyes as she took her place next to Ebony. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, wiping the tears away before they could fall.

She was about average height, with light blonde hair, pale skin, and light grey eyes. She wasn't particularly muscular, but at least she looked healthy. She quickly wiped away a few more tears, then turned back towards the crowd, trying to smile as Ebony proceeded to the boys' bowl.

"Domingo Ibanez!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a brown button-down shirt, knee-length trousers, and a flat grey cap. Only as the boy began to walk quickly towards the stage did Casper realize that he was barefoot. But even that didn't seem to slow him down much; he took the stage quickly and confidently, eyeing his district partner warily as he took his place beside her.

The boy was short, and looked even shorter next to a girl four years older, but he, too, looked healthy, at least. He was well-tanned, with dark brown hair swept to one side and dark brown eyes. He looked about as relaxed as anyone in his position could be onstage, and was almost smiling as he looked back out at the crowd.

There were a few murmurs in the crowd as Ebony made her way back to the girls' bowl, but no one said anything. No one did anything. Nothing happened as she drew another slip of paper. "As the first replacement for Colette Woodsworth … Fallon Ladris!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a black-and-white patterned dress. The girl glanced around from one person to another, confused. One of the girls beside her whispered something, but the girl simply stared in disbelief for a moment before pointing to herself. "Me?" she was probably asking, too quietly for the crowd to hear.

As the Peacekeepers came towards her, however, she finally put the pieces together, accompanying them to the stage without a struggle. Casper breathed a sigh of relief, grateful she hadn't decided to cause a scene. Instead, she simply stood there onstage, still a bit flabbergasted. She was rather small for her age, almost as short as Domingo, with long, brown hair and big brown eyes that turned towards Ebony in confusion as she reached in for yet another name.

"As the second replacement for Colette Woodsworth … Ciere Renole!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a girl in a short yellow dress with a thick white belt. For a moment, she seemed as confused as the other girl, but then she simply shrugged and stepped forward, making her way to the stage as quickly as she could. Once onstage, she turned confidently towards the crowd, not a tear in her eyes.

She was about the same height as Audra, slim and well-tanned, with curly, dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. As Casper watched, a strange look came over her face. A look that was almost satisfaction. A small smile found its way to her lips as she faced the crowd.

Casper placed a hand on Hazel's as the four tributes exchanged handshakes and were led away. Four tributes. Double the usual number. Which meant two for each of them. But Hazel had mentored two tributes on her own for more than twenty-five years before his victory. He could manage for one year.

At least, he hoped it would only be one year.

Surely this was only a one-year occurrence, not a permanent change. The Capitol wouldn't punish two extra tributes every year simply because of what one group of tributes had done.

Would they?

A year ago, he would have said no. Of course not. Even the Capitol wouldn't do anything so arbitrary, so vindictive, so cruel. Now, he wasn't so sure.

"Do you have a preference?" Hazel's voice interrupted his thoughts. She knew it was only a formality, of course. The two of them generally worked together, providing advice and comfort to both tributes. Occasionally, a tribute would want to work separately with one or the other, but, even then, they tried to split their time evenly, working with each of the tributes, trying to give them as much guidance as possible.

Casper shook his head. "I'll take the younger two." Younger tributes often reminded him of Lydia, which was both a comfort and a burden. Trying to help them was like trying to save her all over again … and failing. He had failed every time, just as he had failed to save her in the arena. But that would never stop him from trying.

There was nothing else he could do.

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18**

There was nothing she could say.

Audra wrapped her arms tighter around her mother as they both sat in silence. She wanted to say something. She knew her mother wanted to say something. Each of them wanted to comfort the other, to assure each other that everything would be all right.

But neither of them wanted their last words to the other to be a lie.

And, either way, it was a lie. Win or lose, nothing would ever be "all right" again. In order to win, she would have to kill. Other people would have to die. And, in the past year, she'd seen enough death.

No one she knew particularly well had been executed. But to see that kind of death up close, day after day … She sometimes felt like she had known each and every one. Their hopes. Their dreams. Their fear.

Fear. Now she understood their fear better than ever. Not just the fear of dying, but of dying the way _they _had – alone, defenseless, lingering in pain for days before death finally claimed them.

Audra closed her eyes. If death found her in the Games, she hoped it would be quick. Chances were, most of the other tributes were thinking the same thing. Wishing for either victory or a quick death. Audra swallowed hard. If she had to kill – _when _she had to kill – she would make it quick. As painless as possible.

Because that was what she would want.

Audra gripped her mother tighter, surprised by how quickly she had accepted the idea of killing people. But the simple truth was, they were going to die. The Capitol had proven that last year. If she could make their deaths quick and painless rather than slow and agonizing, as the Capitol had, wasn't that better?

Wasn't that kinder?

The Peacekeepers knocked on the door. Audra's mind raced. She had to say something. If she won – if she made it home – what she said now wouldn't matter. But if she didn't … There was only one thing she wanted to say. One thing she wanted her mother to remember.

"I love you," she whispered as the door opened and the Peacekeepers entered. Tears filled her eyes as her mother whispered the words back. Then she was gone. It was over. There was nothing left to do.

She was on her own.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14**

There was nothing he could do.

Domingo rubbed the back of his neck as his mother, father, and older brother Santiago sat down awkwardly beside him. They didn't want to say goodbye. They didn't want him to go. And _he_ certainly didn't want to leave, either. None of them wanted to be in this position.

But here they were. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing any of them could do. He was going to the Capitol. He was going into the Games. There was no point in sitting here and crying about it.

But, of course, that was exactly what his family would do. Just as they had cried four years ago when Santiago was reaped, before a close friend unexpectedly stepped up to take his place. To die in his place.

Domingo shook his head. No one had stepped in for him. Santiago was too old now, and Domingo doubted he would have, anyway. And his friends…

He'd never been very good at making close friends. There were people he hung out with occasionally. People he knew from school. But no one he was particularly close to. Certainly no one he had expected to give their life for him.

But that was normal. That was typical. Seven wasn't a Career district, after all. Most of the time, the name the escort called was the same poor soul who found themselves dying in the Games a few weeks later. That was simply the way it worked. And, especially after last year's events, any outer-district volunteers would be regarded with suspicion.

But none of that mattered. No one had volunteered. No one had come to save him.

And no one would.

He was on his own. But maybe that was better. No more parents looking over his shoulder. No more teachers pestering him to sit still and do his work on time and show up for class. No more Peacekeepers watching his every move, just waiting for any excuse to string him up for a good lashing.

Either way, all of that was in the past. If he won, there would be no more school. No more work. The Peacekeepers would leave him alone. And if he died … Well, none of it would matter, anyway.

Domingo took a deep breath, wishing his family would just leave. This was awkward. It was unnecessary. If he won, all their tears now would just seem silly. And if he didn't, all the tears in the world weren't going to do him one bit of good. There was nothing they could do for him.

He was on his own.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15**

There was nothing any of them could do.

Fallon watched as her family left, the door closing slowly behind them. Silently, she paced the floor, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt. There was nothing they could have done. Nothing they could have said. They couldn't help her now.

She was on her own.

Fallon brushed the tears from her eyes. She didn't want to be on her own. She'd always had someone. Her little brother, Ace, always tagged along with her. Her older sister, Gabrielle, usually tolerated the two of them. Cousins. Friends. She'd always had someone.

She needed _someone_.

Fallon fiddled with the end of her hair, starting to braid it. She would need someone in the Games, too. She wasn't kidding herself. With so many other tributes, she would need allies. She would need help. Someone. Anyone.

No, not anyone. That wasn't right. It had to be the right person. But how was she supposed to know who the right person was? How was she supposed to be able to tell if she could trust someone, when she only had a few days to get to know them? How could anyone actually trust each other in the Games, when they'd only met a few days before?

Fallon shook her head, undoing the braid she'd started. It looked silly. She didn't want to look silly. She wanted to look…

How _did_ she want to look? Any chance of looking strong and in control had probably been lost at the reaping. But she couldn't help it. She hadn't been paying attention. The escort had already called two tributes, after all. How was she supposed to know she was going to pick another?

How was she supposed to know it would be her?

Then again, no one knew, at the reaping, that it would be them. No one except the Careers, of course. They knew. They planned for this. Trained for this. Trained to kill.

No. No, she didn't want to think about that. About all the people in the arena who had trained to kill people. To kill her. There would be time to worry about that later. Right now, she had to focus.

Focus.

Just focus.

They always said it like it was so easy. Just focus. Just think. Just pay attention. But it wasn't that easy. It never had been. And now … now it was worse. Because in order to focus on getting home, she would have to focus on fighting. Killing. And she didn't want to do either of those things. She just wanted to go home.

But she couldn't. Not yet. That wasn't how the Games worked. In order to survive, she would have to fight. She would have to kill. Nothing could change that.

So she would have to change, instead.

* * *

**Ciere Renole, 17**

There was nothing more to be done.

Ciere leaned back against the wall as her family finally left. They were gone. She would never see them again. She was never coming back.

And there was nothing they could do about it.

Ciere closed her eyes as she lowered herself to a seat on the floor, knees tucked to her chest, back pressed against the wall. It was easier this way. It was better. It was kinder. Kinder than what she'd planned.

Now they would never know.

They would know only what they saw on their screens. They would see their daughter, their sister, fighting for her life. Fighting to win. Fighting to come home.

But she was tired of fighting.

She was tired of fighting the feeling that overwhelmed her from the moment she woke up until she finally cried herself to sleep at night. She was tired of going through the motions, day after day, pretending that she was still the same happy little girl she had once been. She was tired of being strong, of putting on a smile, of pretending everything was all right.

Now she just had to be strong a little longer.

Just long enough. Long enough to convince them that she had tried. That she had wanted to come home to them, but just hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, clever enough. It was better this way. They would never know.

They would never know that she wanted this.

She'd thought about doing it herself. But the thought of her family – of little Laya or Brennan stumbling across her lifeless body somewhere in the attic or in the forest – that always stopped her. She'd even thought about volunteering, but had never quite worked up a plausible lie for _why _she had volunteered, _why _she was risking her life.

Now she didn't have to.

It was better this way. It was easier. The choice had been made for her. She could pretend she didn't want it. She could cry and tell them how sorry she was that she was leaving, how much she wanted to come home to them, how hard she would fight.

She could tell them how much she loved them.

That part, at least, wasn't a lie. She did love them. Enough to lie to them. Enough to make this easier for them. She would die, but they would never know the truth.

She had already lost.

* * *

"_I was never meant to do anything! Every single second of my pathetic little life is as useless as that button! You think it's important? You think it's necessary? It's nothing. It's nothing. It's meaningless. And who are you to tell me that it's not?"_


	10. District Eight: Something

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _YesmyLordCiel_, _upsettomcat42_, _kopycat101_, _nevergone4ever_, _Emi96_, and _Greybeard mmmmmm3_ for Gadget, Adelia, Ivira, Baylor, Louis, and Jediah, respectively.

* * *

**District Eight  
****Something**

* * *

**Carolina Katzung, 50  
****Victor of the 10****th**** Hunger Games**

"We have to bring him with us."

Carolina shook her head as she and Lander sat on the edge of the bed. They'd had this discussion several times over the course of the last few days, and were no closer to a solution. Kit was a mess. He hadn't said a word since Carolina and Lander had returned from the 41st Games. He was traumatized. He was terrified. He was certainly in no condition to serves as a mentor.

He blamed himself, Carolina knew, for what had happened during the Games. After his own Games had ended in tragedy, Kit had spent most of his own Victory tour rambling about how he and his two young allies – the boys from Three and Six – would never have turned on each other. How the Capitol would have been forced to allow all of them to live. If only he had been stronger. If only he hadn't panicked after three days with no deaths, frightened by the shadows in the haunting, deserted library. He'd killed his allies – his only remaining competition – in a moment of panic.

But what if he hadn't?

Carolina shook her head. They had only been three little boys, alone, in a terrifying arena. One of them was bound to crack under the pressure. Sooner or later, something had to give. Kit had panicked first. If he hadn't, someone else would have.

But there was no convincing him. During the Victory Tour, his rambling had grown so persistent that Carolina had feared what effect they might have. In an effort to draw attention away from Kit, she had proposed to Lander on the spot in the middle of their visit to District Five. Harakuise, happy to help with anything that might detract from Kit's rather anti-Capitol sentiments, threw them a splendid impromptu party. From that point, their wedding, not Kit's victory, was the focus of the tour, and, once they reached the Capitol, they were wed, with President Snow himself presiding.

Both of them teased each other about the extremely short engagement – and about the silliness of the name "Katzung," which had been a compromise – but the truth was that they'd considered each other family for years. After Carolina's own Victory Tour, she'd taken in Mabel, her district partner's little sister, and she and Lander had practically raised the little girl. Then, following the 25th Games, they'd added a fourth member: Davy, one of Janardan Fletcher's accomplices, released from Capitol custody to honor a deal he had made with Silas Grisom.

And now Kit. Kit, who could seldom be convinced to leave his room even for a short walk around the house. Kit, who believed the rebels in the 41st Games had been following his advice. Kit, who blamed himself for the deaths of the rebels in the Games, and for the executions of their families.

After the family of the rebels in District Six committed suicide, the Peacekeepers in District Eight, perhaps fearing the same thing would happen, immediately took the tributes' families into custody, holding them until the first prisoners in District Seven had died.

Only then did they bring the prisoners forth, parading them on foot up and down streets, zigzagging their way through the district. The prisoners were barefoot, chained hand and foot, linked together by chains around their necks. Their heads had been shaved, and each was clad in a loose-fitting, shapeless, patchwork robe, reminiscent of something a rag doll might wear.

All the while, the prisoners were silent. There were nearly two dozen of them – from a girl few years younger than Kit to a man old enough to be his grandfather – but they marched along without complaint, though their feet soon began to bleed from the rough streets, and they began to stumble. Whips forced them along, past the district square, where the crowd had assumed they would stop.

Instead, the Peacekeepers herded both the prisoners and the onlooking crowd to a high barbed wire fence at the edge of the district. The wires ran diagonally in both directions, crisscrossing each other from the ground to the top of the fence, high over their heads. Several ladders were positioned along the fence, allowing the Peacekeepers to reach the upper wires.

There they stopped and unchained the first prisoner, the mother of one of the tributes. Peacekeepers climbed two of the ladders while the woman was lifted onto a third, positioned between them with her back to the fence. The Peacekeeper on the left stretched the woman's arm out against the fence, careful to position it along as many barbs as possible. The barbs tore into her flesh as he pressed harder, then bound her wrist in place with a rope.

After the other Peacekeeper had done the same, they bound her shoulders in place, as well. Then the ladder was removed, and she hung there for a moment before her ankles, too, were secured. Blood seeped through the rag dress as the barbs pierced deeper into her flesh. Still, she was silent.

One by one, the others were strung up the same way. Some were placed at eye level, some higher along the fence. Some upright, some askew, a few sideways, and one nearly upside-down. Some with their limbs outstretched, some with their arms pinned close to their sides. In the end, it looked like someone had simply flung a collection of rag dolls at a fence and left them wherever they landed.

Which was the intention, she knew. To show that, in the end, they were merely toys to be thrown about by the Capitol. To be played with when they were interesting and discarded when they began to show signs of wear.

Which was why the executions had to be so brutal. So cruel. It wasn't enough for the Capitol to line up a few families and shoot them in the head. It would have been more efficient, certainly, but it wouldn't have invoked the same terror. Wouldn't have caused the same humiliation, the same loss of dignity. And it wouldn't have carried the same message: that, no matter who might say otherwise, anyone in the districts was simply a plaything to the Capitol.

Leaving people to die like that – helpless, hanging there in agony, waiting to die of starvation and thirst while the rest of the district watched – it was cruel. Brutal. Inhuman.

But it was effective.

And she hated that she understood why the Capitol considered it necessary.

And, most of all, she couldn't bear to see Kit blaming himself. For the part he had played in inciting the rebellion. For simply standing by and watching them die. For not stepping in and doing something.

And now she and Lander had to find some way to tell him that there would be four extra tributes this year. Replacements for the two rebels. Punishment for the rebellion he believed he had inspired.

"Care?" Lander's voice shook her from her thoughts as he slipped his hand into hers. "We can't just leave him here."

No. No, they couldn't. They had left him last year, not knowing what would happen. Not knowing that he would be forced to watch the terrible executions alone. Not knowing that the Games would end in the brutal torture and execution of the rebels who had volunteered for his sake. Who could say what might happen this year? Whatever it was, they couldn't let him face it alone.

And neither of them could stay here with him. It was a possibility they had considered before. Both of them had mentored two tributes before – Carolina during the 25th Games, Lander for four years before bringing Carolina home. Only sending one mentor may have been a possibility with two tributes … but not six. The tributes would need them both.

So Kit would have to come.

Carolina nodded. "All right. Kit comes. We make him a mentor in name only, pick a tribute who'll work with him—"

"Never said he had to mentor," Lander pointed out. "Vernon comes every year and never does a damn thing. Tobiah's the same way. Just bring him along. No one'll care."

"_He'll _care," Carolina pointed out. "If he's not mentoring, he'll think we're bringing him along out of pity."

Lander shrugged. "We are."

He was right, of course. But the last thing Kit needed right now was to feel powerless. Mentoring was a burden, certainly, but if they could do something – _anything_ – to make Kit feel like he was helping the tributes rather than bringing them more hardship…

"Let's just wait and see," Carolina decided. "If there's someone who'll work with him, fine. If not … we'll figure it out."

Lander nodded easily. "Fair enough. If we get a bunch like last year's, it won't matter much who their mentor is. The poor fools didn't listen to a word we said, anyway."

Carolina cringed. It felt wrong talking about them like that, but, unfortunately, he was right. The rebels – Sabrina and Calem – had seemed not to hear anything she and Lander had said. About the Capitol. About their families. About what might happen if they went through with their plan.

But even she hadn't expected the Capitol to condemn twenty-three people to a slow, lingering death along the district's fences. Even she hadn't expected to see a fellow victor – a man she considered a friend – beaten nearly to death on their screens, in front of all of Panem. And even she hadn't expected Silas – a man she had come to respect during the 25th Games, a man she had hoped would be more merciful than his predecessor – to punish not one, but two extra tributes for each of the rebels.

"We should get ready," Lander sighed, giving Carolina's hand a squeeze. Reluctantly, Carolina nodded, and the two of them quickly dressed for the reaping. Carolina chose a long, black dress and a dark grey sweater, Lander a matching grey shirt and black suit. Perfect for a funeral.

For a funeral it was, or might as well be. Once they stepped onstage, at least five of those six tributes would be dead. They just didn't know it yet.

_Stop it_.

Carolina pushed the thought from her head as she and Lander headed for Kit's room. The boy said nothing as they entered. He was already dressed – black shirt, black pants, black shoes. He didn't argue. Didn't fuss. He simply stood up meekly as they approached and followed them out the door.

Lander wrapped an arm around Kit's shoulders. "Kit, there's … There's something you should know. Nicodemus called."

Kit glanced up immediately, startled. "Don't worry; he's fine," Carolina insisted. It was a lie, of course. Pain and exhaustion had been clear in Nicodemus' voice by the time he had called her. But Kit didn't need to know that. "He wanted to warn us. This year's going to be … different. Instead of two tributes, District Eight is sending six."

There was no easy way to say it. She had thought it would be kinder not to beat around the bush. But, even so, Kit stopped in his tracks, halfway through the kitchen.

"It's not your fault," Carolina insisted, but Kit was already shaking his head, convinced that it was. Carolina glanced at Lander, who nodded. "Kit," she said softly. "We need you to do something for us."

Kit looked up, tears in his eyes, surprised. "We need you to come with us," Lander continued. "There are going to be six tributes. We need as many of us as possible. I know it's not fair to ask you so soon after your own Games, but will you—"

That was all he'd needed to say. Kit was already nodding, grateful for anything he could do to help. Lander and Carolina exchanged a glance, and the three of them headed for the square.

Mabel and Davy met them on the way, both greeting Kit warmly, both managing to smile a little as they reached the square. The three victors took their places onstage, Carolina and Lander on either side of Kit, as if by surrounding him they could somehow shield him from what was coming.

But there was no way to stop what was about to happen.

Samarin Lanair, District Eight's escort, smiled almost apologetically at the three of them as he took his place onstage. After a short speech from the mayor, Samarin dipped a hand into the first reaping bowl and drew a slip of paper. "Gadget Test!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a grey blouse, red hooded jacket, and a faded yellow skirt. The girl looked around for a moment, shocked, but started to make her way slowly towards the stage. As she got closer, however, a little boy outside the reaping section started crying out. "Leave her alone!"

Immediately, an older man – probably his father – clapped a hand over his mouth. The girl turned towards the two of them, watching the boy for a moment, then held up her hands, crossing her thumbs so that her hands formed a bird or a butterfly. With tears in his eyes, the boy mirrored the gesture. The girl nodded, then quickly made her way to the stage.

She was tall – easily six feet and surprisingly muscular. Her long, dark blonde hair hung long down her back, her crystal blue eyes scanning the crowd until she found the boy again. For a moment, tears brimmed in her eyes, but then she looked up and almost smiled a little. Carolina glanced up in time to see an eagle flying overhead, in search of its next meal.

"Baylor Alanis!"

Samarin's voice pulled her back to the moment as the fourteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white tunic, black jeans, brown shoes, and a brown, braided necklace. Immediately, the boy surged forward through the crowd and, taking the stairs two at a time, charged up to the stage.

He was about average height and build, but he still looked small next to Gadget, who was about a head taller and certainly more muscular. He was well-tanned, with warm, hazel eyes and light brown hair. Once onstage, he hurried to the microphone and whispered, "I hope to return here as soon as I can." Then he held out his hand to Gadget, who hesitated a moment but then shook it.

But, unbeknownst to both of them, the reaping wasn't over. Samarin headed back to the girls' reaping bowl, reached in, and drew another slip. "As the first replacement for Sabrina Hazenberg … Adelia Luciano!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a girl in a stained blue blouse and a skirt that had probably been white at one point. For a moment, the girl simply stood there, confused. Waiting. Waiting for an explanation, perhaps – one that wasn't coming.

But, as the Peacekeepers began to stir, the girl regained her composure and began walking towards the stage, her lips pursed tightly, her fists clenched at her side. Once she reached the stage, though, she hesitated – perhaps confused about where she was supposed to stand. After a moment, she chose a place between her two district partners.

Taller than Baylor but shorter than Gadget, the girl was fairly average in height and build. She was tan, with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her hands were dirty, but that didn't stop Baylor from extending a hand and a smile, which the girl returned gratefully as Samarin reached into the bowl once more.

"As the second replacement for Sabrina Hazenberg … Ivira Spielreyn!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted a third time, this time for a girl in a white knit shirt, loose black skirt, and well-worn black boots. She took a few steps towards the stage, a grin slowly spreading across her face. As she got closer, her steps became quicker, more confident. She was almost running by the time she reached the stage.

The girl was tan, with straight black hair and deep brown eyes. High cheekbones, thin lips, and sharp eyebrows gave her face a lean and hungry look. She was nearly as tall as Gadget but quite thin and frail, out of breath from even the short run to the stage. Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she turned to Kit and gave him a sarcastic smile. "Thanks a lot, kid."

The response was immediate. The tears that had been brimming in Kit's eyes started to spill. Carolina wrapped an arm around her fellow victor, whispering over and over again that it wasn't his fault. She didn't have time to stop Lander, who was already on his feet. One punch to the girl's jaw knocked her to the stage before the Peacekeepers stepped in to restrain him.

But the girl was laughing as she got to her feet. She winked at Kit, who, mercifully, wasn't looking in her direction. Lander was grumbling, swatting the Peacekeepers' hands away as they herded him back to his seat. Carolina reached over and laid a hand on his arm, catching his eye and mouthing silently, _I'll take her._

Lander nodded gratefully as Samarin glanced from one victor to another, waiting. "Go on, Sam," Lander muttered. "Get it over with."

Samarin nodded, dipping his hand in the boys' bowl. "As the first replacement for Calem Edley … Bryson … Bow-veer? Boo-vie-er? Aw, hell, I'm getting too old for this. B-o-u-v-i-e-r. Come on up, kid."

Carolina cringed as only Ivira giggled. Maybe Samarin was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn't working. The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey shirt and pants. Before he took more than a few steps, however, a voice interrupted. "Wait! I volunteer! I volunteer!"

Carolina's mind raced. A volunteer. Another rebel? After what had happened last year, she doubted it. Besides, if he'd simply wanted to be in the Games, he could have volunteered sooner. Sure enough, the boy who burst out of the fifteen-year-old section didn't look eager. He looked desperate. He rushed forward, not stopping until he reached the stage, shaking his head at the boy Samarin had called, silently pleading with him not to object.

For a moment, the other boy looked like he might. But then he nodded a little and slipped back into the eighteen-year-old section. The boy onstage breathed a sigh of relief as Samarin beckoned him towards the microphone. "What's your name, son?"

"Jediah. And it's pronounced Boo-vee-air." He smirked a little as he shook Baylor's outstretched hand, then claimed a spot next to Ivira. He was almost as tall as Gadget and about as muscular, with pale skin, medium brown hair and dark brown eyes.

Bouvier. So they were brothers, then. While it wasn't unheard of for a sibling to volunteer for another, usually it was the other way around: the older one volunteering for the younger. In fact, she'd only seen a younger sibling volunteer one time before…

Maeren. Her own ally. The ally she had betrayed – pushed down in the path of mutts as they were running for their lives. The ally who had been found by Alicante, then flayed alive.

Carolina felt a hand on her shoulder. Lander. She looked up, and he nodded, mouthing something silently. _I'll take him_. Carolina nodded gratefully and turned her attention back to Samarin, who had chosen one last slip of paper. "As the second replacement for Calem Edley … Louis Soren!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dirty grey shirt, a pair of torn, badly stained pants, and mismatched shoes – one brown, one black. The boy glanced around for a moment, surprised, but, as he stepped forward, his gaze dropped. He kept his eyes on the ground as shuffled forward, step by step, his hands in his pockets.

He was about average height, though he looked a little older than fourteen. He was pale, with curly blonde hair that swung every which way as he walked. When he finally made it to the stage, his blue eyes glanced up at his district partners, then out at the crowd. The boy ran his hand through his hair, shaking Baylor's hand quickly before glancing away, chewing nervously on the end of his thumb.

The Peacekeepers quickly stepped forward to lead the tributes away. Carolina glanced over at Lander, who nodded silently. Carolina quickly rose, whispered, "I'll take the three girls," and hurried after one of the tributes.

There was something she needed to do.

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14**

"Can you do something for me?"

Baylor looked up curiously at his unexpected guest. Carolina Katzung. Victor of the Tenth Hunger Games. One of only three victors in District Eight's history. And _she_ wanted _his _help? Baylor cocked an eyebrow. "What can I do?"

"I need help with Kit. With six tributes, we can't just leave him here. But if he's coming with us, he should be mentoring. Otherwise, he'll just feel like—"

"Extra baggage," Baylor nodded. "How can I help?"

"I want you to ask him to be your mentor. It won't put you at a disadvantage – Lander and I usually mentor together. With so many tributes, it makes sense to work together – at least at first."

"Why do you need me to ask him?"

"Because if this comes from Lander or me, he might think – or he might think that you think – that he's getting the leftovers. The tributes we didn't want. But if _you _ask _him_…"

"Then he feels needed," Baylor agreed. "Of course I will." He hesitated. "But if you don't mind my asking … Why me?"

Carolina sat down across from him, her left eye glowing red. Baylor tried not to stare, but he couldn't help it. He knew the story. Another tribute had torn out her eye, and she'd kept on fighting. Baylor shuddered a little, wondering if he would have been that brave.

Carolina smiled faintly. "Because you didn't shake Ivira's hand."

"What?"

"When you came up to the stage, you shook Gadget's hand – no questions asked. Adelia. Jediah. Louis. But not Ivira."

Baylor looked away. "Because of what she said to Kit."

"Exactly."

"I didn't think anyone had noticed," Baylor admitted.

Carolina chuckled softly. "First lesson of the Hunger Games, then, Baylor. People notice. They notice everything. From now on, you're under constant scrutiny. Everyone's watching you. Your mentors. Your district partners. The other tributes. The Gamemakers. The audience. Sponsors. The president. Everyone. They're going to see everything." She leaned forward a little. "So make it count."

Baylor nodded. "Thank you. I … I will."

Soon, Carolina was gone, and the door opened for his family. For a while, they talked, hugged, cried … everything he had expected. Except he didn't cry as much as he had thought he would. Because there was a part of him that was already gone. A part of him that was already playing the Game.

And he had something important to do.

* * *

**Gadget Test, 16**

She had something important to do.

Gadget stared at the door long after her parents, sister, and four younger brothers had left. Or maybe they hadn't left. Maybe she had left. Maybe she was already gone. Maybe a part of her was already in the Games.

And there was something she had to do there.

She didn't know what it was yet. But there must have been a reason. A reason she was here. A reason why she, of all people, had been chosen for the Games. She was meant to do something. Something important. Something that would show her who she really was.

Because that was what the Games did, in the end. They showed who people truly were, beneath the lies and the smiles and deceptions of daily life. In the Games, there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere for people to run from themselves – from who they really were.

And, while it was there for all of Panem to see, it was amazing how few people truly saw it. The Careers saw only an opportunity for glory. The others saw only a punishment for the rebellion. None of them saw the Games for what they really were: a mirror.

Looking through that mirror, she probably knew more about the Games' victors than they knew about each other. Because, from the inside looking out, they missed the moments. Not the big moments that won the Games, but the little moments.

Lander's moment had been after the nineteenth cannon in the arena sounded, signaling the final five. He and his district partner – and only ally – had to make a choice: whether to run from the other three tributes or face them head-on. They had chosen to run. Lander was still running. He would always be running.

Carolina had plenty of bigger moments. Abandoning her ally. Her first kill. When she decided to stand and fight a tribute rather than run. When she lost her eye. The finale. But none of those were her moment. Her moment had come much sooner than that – during the bloodbath. She had reached not for a weapon, but for a map. She had been looking for direction.

She was still looking for direction – for a way to make up for what she had done. She had taken in Mabel. Davy. Kit. But none of them had been able to fill the void left by the Games. By what she had done.

And Kit … She hadn't decided what his moment was yet. She hadn't watched enough replays of the Games. Now, maybe she never would. Instead, she would be living them. Finding her own moment.

And that was more important.

* * *

**Jediah Bouvier, 15**

There was something more important.

Jediah looked up as Bryson, Rogelio, and Nerissa entered. For their sakes, he forced a smile, trying not to look nervous. Trying not to look afraid.

Of course, he was nervous. He was afraid. Terrified, in fact. He wasn't kidding himself. There were five other tributes in District Eight alone. There was no telling how many there might be in all. His chances were slim. But there was something more important than that.

_They _were more important than that.

Bryson was all they had. After their mother's death, it had fallen to Bryson to raise his younger siblings. They all depended on Bryson. They needed Bryson.

More than they needed him.

This way, Bryson was safe. This had been his last year. Jediah had assumed he was safe after the first two tributes' names had been called. He should have been safe. He would have been safe.

If not for the extra tributes, they would _both _have been safe.

But if one of them had to go into the Games, it should be him. Bryson was older, but Jediah had always been stronger. He had a better chance. He might make it home.

But if he didn't…

If he didn't, at least his family would be safe. They would still have Bryson to provide for them. Bryson would have spent the Games worrying about coming home to take care of his siblings. It would have been distracting. He would have had too much to worry about.

All Jediah had to worry about was himself.

For once, the four of them simply sat in silence. No one seemed to know what to say. At last, the door opened, and the Peacekeepers came to take the others away. But Bryson lingered for a moment.

"Why?" he asked at last.

Jediah nodded. Maybe that was the only question that mattered, in the end. He could have been safe. He could be spending the Games at home, watching his brother on the screen, wondering whether he would live or die.

That would have been worse.

At least this way, there was something he could do. He wouldn't be sitting helplessly at home, hoping and wishing for his brother to come back. He would be the one working, fighting, killing for the chance to come home.

Neither option was good. But it was better this way.

Jediah wrapped his brother in a hug. "Because I made a choice." And he had. It had been his choice. And he was more convinced than ever now.

He had done the right thing.

* * *

**Louis Soren, 14**

He must have done something wrong.

Louis drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, trying to think. Trying to think of what he might have done to upset the Peacekeepers. The Capitol. Maybe the mayor. Anyone in authority. Was there a reason he had been reaped? Was there a reason they had chosen him?

Or was it simply dumb luck?

Louis ran his fingers through his hair, hoping it had simply been luck. Hoping they didn't have a reason to go after him.

He'd never given them a reason, of course. Not really. Sure, he took part in the game that some of the others his age played. Well, they called it a game, at least. Really, it was just a fight. Usually a fight between a poorer kid and a richer kid. Usually with the richer kid's lunch as a wager. Officially, the Peacekeepers – and most of the parents – disapproved. But, as long as no one was seriously hurt and it didn't cause a disturbance, they didn't really care.

They had bigger things to worry about.

Bigger things. Louis began to chew nervously on the end of his thumb. A week before the reaping last year, he had fought an older boy. He'd never landed a punch, but the boy had given up half his lunch, anyway, saying that Louis probably needed it more. And, as much as Louis hated the looks of pity he sometimes got, the boy was right; he'd really needed the food.

A week later, the older boy, Calem, volunteered for the Games.

Louis had been as surprised as anyone else – volunteers were rare in Eight – but had started to think that maybe the boy could win. Maybe District Eight would become the second district with back-to-back victors.

Then, to his surprise, the rebels had banded together, refusing to fight, quickly eliminating anyone who was intent on killing. Louis had been surprised, but still hopeful. Hopeful that maybe they would succeed. Maybe the Capitol would have to give in. Maybe the Games would end.

But, of course, they hadn't. And now he was here. A replacement for Calem.

A replacement. But he wouldn't be a copy. He wouldn't make the same mistakes. He wouldn't die the same way. He wouldn't let his family die the same way.

Louis tucked his knees to his chest, hoping the Peacekeepers didn't know. Hoping they couldn't tell how much he had secretly admired Calem. How much he wished the rebels' plan had worked.

Because if they knew, he was already dead.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16**

Something inside her was already dead.

Adelia held her little sister Sarai close as their parents sat down beside them. When the had called her name, she had been confused. Terrified. But now she simply felt numb. As if all of this was happening to someone else, somewhere else – somewhere far away. As if this wasn't – couldn't possibly be – happening to her.

But it was. And she knew it was – at least on some level. She was leaving District Eight. Maybe forever. She might be going to her death.

Maybe she was already dead.

Adelia shook her head, holding Sarai even closer. This was still real. She was still here. With her family. In District Eight.

But not for much longer.

Adelia took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't so bad. Not really. It wasn't as if there was anything wonderful about District Eight, anyway. Especially not recently. Ever since the last Games, ever since the executions, there had been a tension – a heaviness – throughout the district. People could feel it, even if they couldn't describe it. The entire district was sinking lower and lower.

Maybe it was better to abandon ship.

Her family wouldn't see it that way, she knew. Despite its faults, her parents still loved District Eight. Still believed that all it took to make things better was the right attitude and a little hard work. Or maybe a lot of hard work. After all, hard work had taken her father from a menial job in the district factories to owning his own small repair shop.

But that was a far cry from making a major change in the district.

Her father would say that major changes weren't necessary. That enough small changes would eventually add up to a big one. And there was a time when she would have believed him. But now … now it was hard to believe that things would ever get better.

But if she won the Games…

Then what? It wasn't as if their victors had it any better. The reaping was the first time anyone had seen Kit in almost a year. Lander and Carolina certainly seemed happy – most of the time – but it was clear the Games had changed them. Damaged them. Did she really want that?

Maybe not, but it was certainly a better option than dying.

Adelia shook her head. There was no happy ending. There were no good choices.

But, in the end, she would still have to choose.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16**

It was nice to have something to do.

Ivira leaned back in her chair as her parents left. Smiling, she fingered the thick necklace she wore. Her parents had offered her a few other trinkets, but she had decided on this, in the end. In a pinch, she might be able to use it as a weapon.

But she already had the best weapon she could ask for.

It was one thing to be able to wield a sword or a club. To have perfect aim with a bow or a throwing knife. To be able to build a perfect trap or prepare the perfect poison. But she already had the perfect weapon.

In fact, she had five of them.

The fun part would be figuring out how to use them. Finding out what made each of them tick, figuring out how to motivate them, how to frighten them, how to inspire them. It would take time, of course, but, sooner or later, everyone was an open book.

Five district partners. Three mentors. Between the eight of them, the amount of information she could gather before they even reached the Capitol was substantial. And, once they were there, the possibilities were endless. She would have all the tools she needed.

And she would have the perfect environment, too. People were always much more interesting in the Games than they were back in the districts. In District Eight, people were frightened, but it was almost always a distant fear. Everything in the Games was so intense. So real. Fear wasn't distant and abstract; it was immediate. Tangible.

And that was easier to control. To mold. To use.

Everyone was afraid of the unknown. The abstract. But that sort of fear was hard to pinpoint, to manipulate. But fear was different in the Games. A vague fear of death was transformed into the very real fear of the tribute waiting around the corner, stalking the hall, prowling in the forest. Fear of some future pain was transmuted into the immediate pain of a wound, a burn, a plucked-out eye.

That sort of pain, that sort of fear – it was easier to use. But it was rare in District Eight.

Or, at least, it had been. Everything had changed in the last year. The executions had brought that tangible fear home to District Eight. Most people dreaded it. But Ivira had learned to use it. To appreciate it.

The Capitol was right about one thing, at least: they were all simply toys. Moldable, bendable, and, in the end, very, very breakable.

And it was time to play.

* * *

"_[He] is here because he has to do something. He can't be told what it is; he's got to find it himself."_


	11. District Nine: Anything

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Three things. First, I'm leaving tomorrow for a camping trip with my family. We'll be back in about a week. Just wanted to let you know in advance that I'm not disappearing forever.

Second, as a few people have noted, I did decide to bump the rating up. Better safe than sorry.

Third, thank you to _Sunlight Comes Creeping In_, _The Lunar Lioness_, _kkfanatic22_, and _Aspect of One _for Sariya, Myrah, Melody, and Thane, respectively.

* * *

**District Nine  
****Anything**

* * *

**Eloise Davies, 26  
****Victor of the 33****rd**** Hunger Games**

"We have to do something."

Eloise shook her head slowly. The seven of them – Eloise, her parents, and her four younger siblings – sat crowded together in their old farmhouse. Ever since they'd moved into her home in Victors' Village, the old house had been abandoned. It was dark, stuffy, empty – the perfect place to meet.

Eloise squeezed Tevin's hand tightly. He seemed so young now – much younger than his fifteen years. Last year's Games had been hard on everyone, but Tevin had been hit hardest of all. The female tribute, Denice Akaishi, had been a family friend, but particularly close to Tevin. Against Eloise's advice, she'd sided with the rebels.

Eloise shook her head. "We will do something. I promise. But we have to be patient."

But even as she said the words, she knew how hollow they sounded. She hadn't been here when the executions had taken place. She had been safely in the Capitol with Crispin, watching everything on their screens. Watching as her family's closest friends were led to their deaths.

The three of them – Denice's mother, father, and eleven-year-old brother Aven – were paraded through the district to the edge of a field. There, the Peacekeepers bound in place around a single wooden pole, their backs braced tightly against the stake. Wood and coals were piled at their feet, then covered with chaff from the field – but not too much. Too much, the Peacekeepers knew, and the smoke would smother them before the flames even touched them.

As soon as the flames were lit, Aven began to cry. Crying turned to screaming as the flames crept upwards, licking at their feet, then catching the bottoms of their trousers. The three of them cried out in agony as their charred flesh began to fall away. Gradually, Peacekeepers threw more wood on the fire, and the flames climbed upwards, catching their clothes, their skin, their hair.

It was almost a full hour before they finally died. And still the flames burned. More wood was added, until the three bodies had been consumed, leaving nothing but ashes and the smell of burning flesh.

"We shouldn't wait," seventeen-year-old Hannah insisted. "We should do something _now_. This year. People are angry. They're ready to strike."

Brylee, twenty years old, shook her head. "They're not angry. They're scared."

"And they should be," twenty-two-year-old Judah agreed. "We do something rash – we act too soon – and the same thing that happened last year will happen again. We need to wait. To organize—"

"We _are _organized," Hannah insisted. "We're ready!"

"We're one family," their father pointed out. "In one district. If we're going to have any chance of success, we need contacts in the other districts."

Eloise took a deep breath. "And the Capitol."

Every eye turned to her. "What?" Hannah asked.

Eloise leaned forward. "I know what you're going to say, but listen – please. Misha had the right idea, but he went about everything the wrong way. His plan was focused on derailing the Games, right?"

Brylee nodded. "Right. But the Games aren't the real problem."

"Exactly," Eloise agreed. "They're a symptom of the problem. If we're going to solve the _real _problem – the Capitol – then we're going to need help from inside. How many people live in the Capitol? Thousands?"

"Tens of thousands," their father offered. "Maybe a hundred thousand."

Eloise nodded. "Okay. Out of that number, how many are actively involved in the government – how many actually keep track of what's going on in the districts? The president, his advisors, the Gamemakers, the Peacekeepers – how many?"

"A couple hundred, maybe, in the government," their mother nodded. "Add in the Peacekeepers … maybe a thousand."

Eloise nodded. They were starting to get it. "And what about the military? What do they really have?"

Their mother shook her head. "No one really knows. It's been decades since the rebellion. Whatever troops they had … they're old, out of practice. Any new recruits have never really seen a battle. Not a real one. A few riots, a few disturbances – but nothing big. Throw them into a real battle … Who knows?"

"Exactly. So what's their advantage? Their _real _advantage, behind all the smokescreens and the fear and the propaganda. What do they _really _have?"

Judah cocked an eyebrow. "Resources. Technology. Transportation. They control it all."

"Okay, but what if they didn't?"

"If they didn't," Brylee repeated. "Just like that?"

"Not overnight. But if the rebellion—" Eloise stopped short, surprised at herself. The rebellion. That was what they were really planning, in the end. A rebellion.

It sounded good.

"If the rebellion had contacts in high places – not the government, but among the people in charge of technology, transportation, distribution, manufacturing … If we can sway those people, or move others into those positions – then we'd rob them of that advantage. That's one half of the plan."

The plan. That sounded good, too. It was Tevin who finally spoke up with the obvious question. "What's the other half?"

Eloise leaned forward a little more. "The other half is the other tens of thousands of people who live in the Capitol. The ones who aren't involved in the government. The ones who have no idea what goes on in the districts. The ones who watch the Games not because they want the districts to pay for the rebellion, but just because they're _fun_. Those people. Average, everyday people – but so many of them. If we can find something – some way to show them the truth…"

"What truth?" Hannah asked. "That they should end the Games?"

Eloise shook her head. "No. No, we need to go farther than that. Think it through. _Why_ don't they think the Games are terrible? _Why_ doesn't it bother them that twenty-three children die every year? Why don't they care?"

Blank looks. Eloise nodded. Of her family, she was the only one who had been to the Capitol. The only one who had seen – the only one who _could _see – the real problem. Most of the people she had met in the Capitol – the escorts, the stylists, the sponsors, and even the interviewers … They weren't terrible people. They weren't monsters. They were human.

And that was the key.

"They don't see us as human," Eloise said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "Not really. We're faces on their television screens. Voices during the interviews. We're fascinating, certainly – but we're not real to them. Not humans. Not equals. We're different. Less than them, somehow." She shook her head. "If we're going to reach them – all those people – they need to see us as equals. But, in order for that to happen, we need to see them the same way. They aren't 'the Capitol.' They aren't 'the enemy' – not most of them, at least. They aren't monsters. And neither are we."

"So how do we…?" Brylee started.

Eloise smiled a little. "The Games. They're the key. Because they're our only platform – the only time they really see us. Any time a tribute in the Games – Career or not, older or younger – any time they do something _human_, something _real_, something that reminds people that we're the _same_ … those are our moments. We need to take them. We need more of them."

"I suppose that's mostly your job," Judah pointed out.

Eloise nodded. Most of this was her job. Contacts in the Capitol. Coaching the tributes. She was in a position to help. Part of her hadn't wanted to involve her family at all, but they had a right to know. If anything went wrong, they were the ones the Capitol would execute. Slowly. Painfully.

Was it worth it?

Eloise held Tevin's hand tightly. That fear – the threat of retribution – was exactly why she hadn't spoken to Crispin about any of this. Not yet. He had a wife. Two children. They were expecting their third. She couldn't ask him to take that risk. Not yet.

Not until she was sure it could work.

But there were others. Other victors she was sure she could trust. Some who had nothing left to lose. Some with so much anger that they wouldn't realize what they _could _lose. These next few weeks could change everything…

At last, Eloise got to her feet. The rest of her family, sensing the meeting was over, followed her back to Victors' Village, where they were surprised to find Crispin waiting at the door. Eloise motioned her family inside as Crispin cocked an eyebrow. "I was looking for you."

"Family outing," Eloise explained. "We wanted to spend some time together before the reaping. Tevin and Hannah are still…"

Crispin nodded. Still of reaping age. Still in danger. Officially, relatives of victors had the same chance of being reaped as any other teenager in the district. But everyone knew otherwise. Vernon's son. Elijah's sister, though Tamsin had stepped in to take her place. Jade's son, Jasper and Harakuise's daughter, Camden – although both of them had volunteered. It was no secret that the Capitol loved to see victors' relatives in the Games.

Crispin placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. His own children weren't old enough for the reaping yet, but it was only a matter of time. "I was looking for you because Nicodemus called."

Eloise's heart leapt. If anyone had a reason to oppose the Capitol – and very little left to lose – it was Nicodemus. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to warn us – about the reaping. There are going to be extra tributes. Two extra tributes for everyone who rebelled during the last Games. So for us—"

"—two extra girls," Eloise finished, fighting back the lump in her throat. Four tributes. Two more girls than usual. Two more chances that Hannah…

Eloise took a deep breath. Okay. _Okay_. If the Capitol wanted Hannah reaped, it would happen whether there was one female tribute or three. There was nothing she could do about it right now. "Who else knows?"

Crispin shook his head. "My wife. Tobiah. Whoever he's told – which is probably no one. Amari and I thought it best to keep it quiet. We don't want everyone to panic if—"

"—if only two families really need to," Eloise nodded. Crispin was such a familiar figure in the district, such a father to everyone, that it was easy to forget he was the victor who had won the longest Games on record. That, during his time in the arena, he had grown _stronger_ rather than being worn down. That he had gone out of his way to attack mutts because he had thought it would be good practice. He knew how to pick his battles. He knew nothing would be accomplished by warning people ahead of time. Nothing but a lot of panic and anxiety – most of it wasted.

"All right, then," Eloise nodded. "Keep it quiet it is, then. I'll see you in a little while."

Soon, she and her family were on their way to the square. Silent. Shuffling along like any other family whose children were of reaping age. Eloise hugged both Tevin and Hannah tightly before taking her place onstage, hoping they wouldn't be among the teenagers who joined her there in the next few minutes.

Crispin was already there, nodding warmly as she took her seat beside him. Tobiah stumbled onstage last of all, his right hand and the stump of his left arm clapped tightly over his ears as if trying to block out some sound – a sound that didn't exist, aside from the quiet murmur of the crowd and the whisper of the wind. Hungover or drunk or high, Eloise wasn't sure. But at least he was here. He'd made it to the reaping on his own, which was rare enough.

As gently but firmly as he could, Crispin helped Tobiah to his seat, then turned to the escort, Sibyl Mahone, and nodded. Sibyl sighed, but put on a smile as she turned back to the crowd. She was new to District Nine; she'd been moved up from District Ten only two years ago. She was young. Eager. Waiting to be bumped up another district or two.

Two, probably. Samarin would be in District Eight until he died. He was one of the few escorts who had grown attached to a single district, rather than the Games themselves. Not that anyone else wanted Eight, anyway, especially after last year. Eight, Six, Three, and even Four would be regarded as more rebellious than the others for a good long while.

But Nine…

Seven, Nine, Ten, and Eleven were different. Their tributes had rebelled, yes, but it hadn't been planned. It had been a spontaneous choice – a choice, in one instance, made at swordpoint. Join the rebels or be killed by them. They were just children, in the end. What would anyone else have done?

What would _she_ have done?

Eloise didn't have to think very hard about that one. There was no doubt in her mind that she would have joined the rebels. They had been persuasive. Charismatic. People had wanted to believe.

She had wanted to believe.

Eloise clenched her teeth as Sibyl took her place by the first reaping bowl. _Not Hannah. Not Hannah. _Sibyl reached in, drew a slip of paper, and unfolded it. _Not Hannah._

"Sariya Charsley!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a white blouse and knee-length black skirt. For a moment, the girl stood there, shocked, staring up at Sibyl as if perhaps she had misheard. But, finally, she took a step forward. Then another. Shaking, her steps still hesitant, she made her way to the stage.

The girl was about average height, rather slender and well-tanned, her wavy blonde hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail. There were tears in her eyes as she raised her head towards the crowd, but none fell. Eloise swallowed hard. She'd been the same at her reaping. Trying not to cry. Not to feel. Trying to be strong.

In some ways, nothing had changed. She was still onstage, trying not to be afraid, trying to pretend that her little brother and sister weren't in danger. Trying to be strong for them as Sibyl made her way to the boys' bowl. _Not Tevin. Not Tevin._

"Thane Hayer!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and khaki pants. For a moment, the boy stared, shocked, but then he let out a laugh – a sudden, bitter laugh that made a few of the teenagers near him step back. Shaking his head, the boy made his way to the stage. By the time he took his place next to Sariya, any trace of a smile was gone, replaced with a cold, hard look.

He was a few inches taller than Sariya, with well-tanned skin and black hair. There was no hint of tears in his dark brown eyes as he turned towards Sibyl, waiting. But instead of telling them to shake hands, as he had probably been expecting, Sibyl turned back to the girls' reaping bowl. Eloise gripped the arms of her chair as Sibyl reached in again. Tevin was safe for another year, but Hannah … _Not Hannah. Not Hannah_.

"As the first replacement for Denice Akaishi … Melody Anson!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a pink singlet and a short black skirt. The girl looked around, confused. Putting the pieces together. At last, she stepped forward, fiddling with her hands as she made her way towards the stage. The girl swallowed hard as she took her place beside the two tributes already onstage.

She was shorter than both of them and quite slim, with light skin and blonde hair that reached the middle of her back. Her dark blue eyes were damp with tears, but, to Eloise's surprise, none of them fell. She simply stood there, clenching and unclenching her fists, as Sibyl reached in and drew one more name. Eloise braced herself. _Not Hannah. Not Hannah._

"As the second replacement for Denice Akaishi … Myrah Lanhart!"

Eloise struggled not to look relieved as the fourteen-year-old section parted for the last tribute, a girl in a knee-length lavender dress, white long-sleeved shirt, and a well-worn pair of jeans. For a moment, she simply stood there, frozen in place. But then, with a sudden burst of energy, the girl sprinted. Peacekeepers stepped forward for a moment, startled, before realizing the girl was running _towards _the stage, grinning as she took her place beside Melody.

She was about Melody's height, with long, dark red hair and green eyes that shone brightly as she turned her grin towards Eloise and her fellow victors. Eloise smiled back encouragingly and Crispin nodded, but both of them saw through her smile. Saw her fists clenched tightly at her side. Saw her turn towards Sibyl, waiting, silently begging for the reaping to be over so she could leave the stage. So she could stop pretending.

After a few quick handshakes, the cameras were switched off, and the tributes were led away. Crispin turned to Tobiah. "Joining us this year?"

"Joining you for drinks – yes. Joining you for prolonging their inevitable deaths a little – no thank you. Enjoy your fun."

Eloise shook her head. This year, more than ever, they were doing more than just prolonging the inevitable. This year, mentoring was more important than ever. Crispin shrugged and turned to her, deferring. As the more experienced mentor, he certainly had the right to choose first, but he always let her have her choice, instead. Eloise thought for a moment. "I'll take Sariya and Thane."

Crispin nodded his understanding. Denice had been one of the younger tributes – only fourteen years old. Eloise couldn't go through that again – not so soon. She needed someone older. Someone who might listen.

Someone ready to do anything they had to do.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17**

He was ready for anything.

Thane glanced up as the door opened again. His parents had already come and gone; there was only one other person he was expecting. Only one other person who might come to bid him farewell. Thane nodded, satisfied, as Joachim entered.

"You didn't seem particularly surprised," Joachim noted.

Thane shrugged. It wasn't that he'd been expecting them to call his name. But he wasn't really surprised. Not anymore. Nothing surprised him anymore.

It was just his luck.

"Just bad luck, I guess," Thane offered as Joachim settled into the chair opposite him.

Just bad luck. That was what he had told himself four years ago, when, on their way home one night, he and his friend Kayla had had stumbled across a group of older men, drunk out of their wits. Thane and Kayla had accidentally bumped into one of them, and the five older men, thinking the teens meant to pick a fight, had given chase and quickly caught the pair.

What happened next was a blur of pain and blood. By the time Joachim had happened along and stepped in to break up the fight, both Thane and Kayla were nearly dead. Despite the local healer's best efforts, Kayla had succumbed to her injuries.

But he was still alive. Just luck.

Just bad luck.

Joachim leaned forward a little. "You've already got an advantage, you know."

Thane cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Do tell."

Joachim shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've been close to death. That pain, that fear – you already know what to expect."

"I'm not sure that helps," Thane admitted. "Knowing what to expect … If anything, it makes it worse – the anticipation, the waiting. I know what's coming, but if there's nothing I can do about it … What's the point?"

Joachim shook his head, unsure. Thane looked away. Joachim was trying to be kind, trying to find something positive to say. But the simple truth was, there was nothing positive about the situation. Nothing he could say that would help. Nothing he could do.

But, for the moment, it was enough for him to be there. Enough that the man who had saved his life all those years ago cared enough to come and say goodbye. So they sat there, silent, soaking in each other's company one last time.

It was the only thing they could do.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15**

She had thought she was ready for anything.

Melody finally broke down in tears as her father and four brothers entered the room. She had thought she was ready to see them. Ready to say goodbye. That, after hearing her name called at the reaping, nothing could possibly be worse.

This was worse. She wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to say goodbye to them. To her district. To everything and everyone she knew.

She didn't want to leave.

Her twin brother Arren was at her side in an instant, where he'd always been. Where he belonged. They rarely left each other's side. And now they were about to be torn apart forever.

No. Not forever. Not if she won. Not if she came home.

But that was a big 'if' – this year more than ever. This year, there would be even more tributes than normal. Older, stronger tributes. Tributes who already knew how to kill. Tributes who would be able to choke the life out of her or run her through with a spear without a second thought.

Melody buried her face in Arren's shoulder as the others formed a circle around the two of them. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to fight, to kill.

She didn't want to die.

Arren held Melody a little tighter. "I wish I was going with you."

Melody forced down the lump in her throat. He'd said it without thinking it through, she was sure, but the thought still made her sick. If he had been chosen to go with her – if his name had been called, too – then only one of them could survive. That would be worse. Much worse.

Melody swallowed hard. It could always be worse. It was better this way – better that it was just her. She wouldn't have to worry about anyone but herself.

Her father pressed a star-shaped locket into Melody's hand. "I wasn't sure what you'd want as a token, but I thought this might…"

Melody threw her arms around her father. "It's perfect." The locket was her favorite. One side held her picture, the other side Arren's. "Thank you."

Her father nodded. "You're welcome." There wasn't really much else to say. Nothing he could say that would make their goodbye any easier. Nothing he could do that would ease her fear. No way to ensure that she would come home. So they simply gave each other one last hug before the Peacekeepers came to separate them.

It was the only thing they could do.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16**

She hadn't done anything.

Sariya shook her head, her fists clenched tightly as she paced the room. Her parents had already come and gone, and a few of her friends. But she didn't feel any better. In fact, if anything, their visits had made her feel worse. Because almost all of them had said the same thing: that they couldn't believe this was happening to her.

Sairya closed her eyes. She couldn't quite believe it, either. Especially after what had happened last year, she had figured that the Capitol would make an effort to target rebels. Troublemakers. Or people who were close to them.

But she hadn't done anything. Her father's drug business was a tad illegal, to be sure, but there were surely others who were more rebellious. Others who were more of a threat. None of her friends were rebels. No one she knew had done anything that might have upset the Capitol.

Maybe it was just dumb luck.

Sariya clenched her fists tightly. That was even worse. If she was going to suffer the consequences, it would almost be better if she had actually done something to deserve them. Then she could at least take comfort in knowing that she'd done something worthy of the Capitol's attention. It was a strange sort of satisfaction, but it would have been better than nothing.

But she hadn't done anything.

Sariya opened her hand and glanced down at the links of chain her mother had left her. Four small links of chain – for good luck, she had said. Four was supposed to be a lucky number.

Lucky. Four tributes from District Nine would enter the Games this year. That was far from lucky. Only one of them could come out. One out of … however many tributes there were this year. More than usual. Worse odds than normal.

Sariya closed her hand tightly around the chain. It was never really about the odds, anyway. No one ever had an entirely equal chance of surviving. It wasn't about chance. It wasn't about luck.

It was about strength.

She would have to be strong. Stronger than ever. As strong, as firm, as steady, as the chain in her hand.

And she had to start now.

Quickly, Sariya wiped away the tears that had started to well in her eyes. She couldn't afford to look weak. Not for a second. They were watching her now. All of them. She had to look as strong, as confident, as ready, as she could.

It was the only thing she could do.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14**

There wasn't anything else she could do.

Myrah took a deep breath and forced a smile as her family entered the room. Immediately, her older brother Kalen threw his arms around her. Myrah returned the gesture without complaint as their parents came over to join them. "It's not fair," her mother whispered quietly.

Myrah wiped the tears from her eyes. Of course it wasn't fair. Recently, it seemed, nothing was fair. The Games last year. The executions. The extra tributes this year.

And she was one of them. One of the extras, chosen to replace one of the tributes who had defied the Capitol. If not for them – if not for Denice – then she wouldn't be here. If not for Denice, she would be safe.

Myrah closed her eyes as her parents and brother held her close. That wasn't fair – blaming Denice. She hadn't known – couldn't have known – what her actions would cause. It wasn't her fault the Capitol had decided to increase the number of tributes.

It wasn't her fault they had overreacted.

Because that was what it seemed like, in the end. A great big, three-year-old-child style overreaction. The rebels had tried to take away the Capitol's favorite toy, so the Capitol was lashing out at everything and everyone who might be the slightest bit involved.

It was stupid. It was childish. She was caught in the middle of the world's biggest tantrum.

And there wasn't a thing she could do about it.

That was the worst part – not being able to do anything about it. Not being able to say what she really thought, how she really felt. Because if she did, then the Capitol would take it out on her family. And she couldn't let them do that.

So she would play along. Be a good little girl. A good little tribute. Because that was what would keep her family alive. That was what would save them from being the next family consumed by flames at the edge of the field.

Myrah held her family close one last time. She could do this for them. She could make sure the Capitol would have no excuse to roast them alive. She could play the part, for their sakes.

It was the only thing she could do.

* * *

"_You knew that was going to happen, didn't you? Then why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you do anything?"_


	12. District Ten: Change

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _Khloe Grace_, _blurry cornrow_, _GlimmerIcewood_, and _komiking _for Elizabet, Calantha, Indira, and Beckett, respectively.

* * *

**District Ten  
****Change**

* * *

**Presley Winters, 21  
****Victor of the 36****th**** Hunger Games**

She wished she had done more.

Presley shrank away as Glenn wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The two of them sat on the edge of her family's grazing land, surrounded by her sheep. Her best friends. Maybe her only friends, except for Tess and Glenn.

Glenn simply held her closer despite her feeble attempts to shy away. He was always so kind. So comforting. But, right now, she didn't need to be comforted. She didn't _want_ to be comforted.

Maybe she didn't _deserve _to be comforted.

It was partly her fault, after all. There was more than enough blame to go around, of course. But Felicity had been her tribute. Her responsibility. While discussing the possibilities with their tributes, both Presley and Glenn had reluctantly agreed that the rebels had no chance. Allying with them would only mean death. Both Felicity and her district partner, Samson, had seemed to listen.

Once in the arena, they had done as they were told. The pair of them had fled from the bloodbath, managing to swipe a few knives and a bag of supplies while the Careers and the rebels targeted each other. When the rebels caught up with them the next day, Samson attacked them without hesitation and was slain quickly. Mercifully.

The rebels had offered Felicity a choice: join them or die. Surrounded and devastated by the loss of her only ally, Felicity had agreed. What had been going through her mind at that moment, Presley would never know. Maybe she had thought she was playing for time – that, if she waited long enough, she could slip away, or maybe take out a few of the rebels. Maybe she had truly believed them. Maybe their show of strength had been enough to convince her that they stood a chance.

Or maybe she had simply been scared.

That was the easiest explanation, of course. But that didn't make it wrong. It was easy, before the Games, to say that she was willing to die for her family's sake, that she didn't want to drag them down with her. But they hadn't been with her in the arena. It had only been her – alone, against a growing number of rebels.

Presley tucked her legs to her chest. What would she have done? What would anyone have done? Felicity hadn't been a rebel. She hadn't meant to defy the Capitol.

She had simply wanted to live.

But she hadn't. She had died.

And her family had died.

Felicity's family had been small. Her parents, Malcolm and Agnes. Her older brother Carlton and her younger sister Mirielle. The Peacekeepers had come for them early one morning and led them to the district square. Confused and bewildered, the four of them had offered no resistance. Maybe they had expected to be spared the fate of the other rebels' families. They weren't rebels. They hadn't done anything. Felicity had only been interested in saving her life.

But it didn't matter.

On the stage lay a large, wooden slab – almost like a short, stunted table, but covered with straps and chains. One by one, each of the prisoners was stripped of their clothes and laid face-up on the table, one next to the other, their arms and legs bound in place. Finally, the back of the table was raised a few feet and fixed in place at an angle, allowing the crowd to see the prisoners clearly.

There the four of them waited, helpless to do anything but watch as a Peacekeeper stepped forward with what looked very much like a butcher's knife. Positioning himself at the end of the table, beside Carlton, the Peacekeeper pried the boy's hand open. Carlton squeezed his eyes shut, but it did no good. His screams echoed through the square as the Peacekeeper sliced off his thumb.

Blood began to flow, but two more Peacekeepers immediately stepped in with bandages and some sort of mixture, which they rubbed into the wound. Soon, the bleeding stopped, but the other Peacekeeper paid no mind. He had moved on to the next prisoner and sliced off a toe. One by one, he moved down the line and back, leaving the fingers and toes to lie where they fell.

Once this was done, the knife was replaced with a cleaver, and, one by one, he hacked off their hands and feet. Each time, the other Peacekeepers stepped in, not wanting any of their prisoners to bleed to death. Occasionally, the four of them were given water. At first, they refused to drink, but, hanging there in the hot sun, with Peacekeepers prying their mouths open and pouring it down their throats, they soon had little choice in the matter.

Once their hands and feet had been severed and left to lie there on the stage, a saw was brought forward, and their limbs were removed in pieces – first severed at the elbows and knees, then at the shoulders and hips. The Peacekeepers proceeded more carefully now, first cutting off the blood flow, then stitching up the bloody stumps as best they could.

Even so, the prisoners quickly began to faint from the heat, the shock, the loss of blood. But the Peacekeepers were patient, making sure to revive their victims before proceeding with the next cut. One by one, their limbs were sawed off, then released from the straps that had held them and allowed to drop to the stage beside the other severed parts.

At last, the four of them simply hung there, dismembered, held in place by a few straps about their chests and waists. The endless screaming had slowly turned to whimpering sobs and pleas for death. Their bare chests heaved up and down as they breathed in ragged gasps, watching as the Peacekeeper exchanged the saw for a small scalpel.

The Peacekeeper approached Mirielle first and slowly, carefully, dragged the scalpel across her belly, opening it. Reaching in, he sliced off a small piece of intestine. Then another. Then another. When she fainted, he moved on to her father as the other Peacekeepers revived her. Then her mother. Then her brother. Then back. Piece after piece fell to the stage as the four of them cried out, begging for the stroke that would simply end it all.

But that stroke never came. Their work done, the Peacekeepers simply stepped back and left them there to die. And, one by one, they did. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, what was left of Mirielle's body went completely limp in its bonds. The Peacekeepers, after failing to revive her, sliced off her ears and nose, tore out her hair, plucked out her eyes, and, finally, severed her head, which fell to the stage in front of her family.

One by one, the others followed, and were likewise dismembered. Last of all, their torsos were released from the table and allowed to drop to the stage along with the rest. By then, it was nearly nightfall, and the Peacekeepers dismissed the crowd. They returned to their homes without question.

But Presley knew no one had slept.

The next day, everyone was expected to continue their lives as normal. As if nothing had happened. As if it were that easy to simply go back to the way things were.

Presley buried her face in Glenn's chest. Nothing would ever be the same. None of them would ever be the same.

She hadn't thought there could be anything worse than the Games. Killing other children in a fight to the death – surely that was as bad as it got. But she had spent most of her Games exploring the arena with her two companions, a pair of lions she had befriended. They had fought together. Killed together. But the kills had been quick. Merciful.

And she had never lost an ally, because she'd never had any proper allies in the first place. The two lions had abandoned her, in the end, but that was only to be expected. And they were still alive, somewhere, in a recreation of her arena. Scarlet, who gave tours of previous arenas, had assured her that Leon and Liana were always a hit with the visitors. All in all, her Games hadn't been the nightmare that some of the others had endured.

Even mentoring, which many Victors dreaded, wasn't usually as bad as she'd been led to believe. She'd always had Glenn beside her, sharing the burden, lightening the load.

She'd lost only four tributes before Felicity. Each was a loss, of course, but, if she was being honest with herself, none of their deaths had been terribly unexpected. Two had died in the bloodbath. One had been found by the Careers on only the second day. The other had made it to the fourth day before falling prey to Jasper's Career pack.

And, as terrible as it sounded, she hadn't expected anything else. Every mentor went into the Games knowing that, more than likely, their tribute would die. It was horrible. But that was what tributes did. That was how the Games worked.

This was different.

Deaths in the Games were sometimes brutal, certainly, but, for the most part, they were over fairly quickly. Occasionally, there was a tribute who preferred to drag it out. To gloat. Maybe someone who held a grudge against a particular tribute and wanted to prolong their deaths. But they were the rare exception. Even the Careers, despite their reputation for bloodthirstiness, usually realized that a quick death was safer for them – that way, they didn't run the risk of someone else seizing the opportunity to kill them while they were finishing off their prey.

This was different. Malcolm. Agnes. Carlton. Mirielle. Their deaths had been slow. Drawn out. Agonizingly cruel. Just like the deaths of the other families across Panem. The deaths of the eleven rebels in the Games, before Avery arrived to end their torment.

She had thought nothing could be worse than the Games. But she had been wrong. This was worse.

And it had to stop.

They had to go back to the way things were.

The Games were horrible, yes, but they were better than the alternative. Better than what had happened to Felicity's family. Better than the price the districts would pay if they continued to resist.

Better than the price they were already paying. Two extra tributes. Two more teenagers who would go to their deaths in the arena. Two more people who could have been safe. Would have been safe, if things had gone just a little differently. If Felicity hadn't been so scared. If Presley had been more forceful, more convincing. If she had done her job better.

Presley swallowed hard. This year, she would do better. She would do her best to bring a tribute home, of course, but, even if she couldn't, she would make sure that their families were safe. That the tributes would play the Game, even if it cost them their lives.

"I'll take two," she said at last, quietly. "I'll take two this year. This is my fault. My responsibility. I have to fix it."

Glenn nodded, as if he'd been expecting that reaction. "All right. I just … I want you to know, Presley … It's not your fault."

Presley looked away. Glenn was sweet. He was kind. But he was wrong. It was her fault – at least partially. And this was the only thing she could do, the only thing that might right that wrong. She couldn't make things better, but maybe she could help stop them from getting worse.

Wordlessly, the pair of them headed for the square, stopping only long enough to pick up Tess. Presley waited uneasily at the edge of Victors' Village while Glenn went to find her mentor. Since returning from the Games, Presley had avoided Victors' Village, including the house that was supposed to be hers.

Glenn insisted there was no harm in accepting the rewards that came with being a Victor, but she had wanted no part of them. She hadn't wanted to be a Victor. She had just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

Presley mustered a smile when she saw Tess, who nodded back and even waved a little as she and Glenn rejoined Presley at the edge of Victors' Village. Tess' recovery had been the only good thing to come from Presley's Games. But at least it was something. It was a small victory, and one that truly belonged to all of them. And, amusingly enough, Presley had been the only tribute Tess had mentored, giving her a success rate no other Victor could claim.

Tess wrapped an arm around Presley's shoulders. "The three of us, then, I guess."

Presley glanced at Glenn, who nodded. She had no doubt he had offered to take two tributes, as well, so that Tess could remain in District Ten. But after years of leaving Glenn to mentor on his own, Tess wanted to do her part. Presley could understand that.

The three of them took the stage together – an odd sight but a welcome one for the district. The tribute who had won without striking a single blow, who had spent his Games hiding in the swamp. The one who had retreated into an almost comatose state after the shock of her Games, spending nearly two decades under Glenn's constant care. And the tribute who had turned down her rightful place in Victors' Village, preferring to return to her parents, her dogs, and her sheep.

Maybe the three of them deserved each other.

Presley did her best not to look at the stage as they took their seats. The table and the bodies were long gone, of course, but bloodstains still dotted the stage. Presley glanced up at the crowd, instead. At the sea of teenagers, four of whom would soon be up onstage – and three of whom, at least, would never return.

Presley swallowed hard as District Ten's new escort, Leonel Kaska, took the stage. After their longtime escort, Hillary Walker, had finally retired, District Ten had gone through escort after escort, none lasting more than a few years. District Ten was a stepping stone to them – a place to get experience before being moved up to a more reputable district.

Leonel would probably be no different, Presley reasoned from the look on his face. He was clearly disgusted with the district already, and disappointed with the three Victors who sat behind him as he headed for the first reaping bowl. He reached in quickly and grabbed the first piece of paper his fingers touched. "Calantha Harlyn!"

There was silence for a moment as everyone scanned the crowd. Finally, the sixteen-year-old section parted to reveal a girl sitting on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, slowly shaking her head back and forth. Quickly, the Peacekeepers stepped forward and hauled her to the stage, dumping her roughly at Glenn's feet.

Glenn was at her side in an instant, helping her up, drying the tears that fell freely down her face. She was short and slender, dressed in a blue crop top and black pants. Her skin was well-tanned, and her wavy dark brown hair hung around her shoulders. Her brown eyes were full of tears as she turned towards the crowd, and she was still shaking as Leonel made his way to the second bowl and quickly chose a slip of paper. "Beckett Furlan!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted once more, this time around a boy in a rumpled white button-down shirt and a pair of grey pants. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, shocked. But, as he stepped forward, a smile slowly found its way to his face. His steps were smooth and confident as he took the stage, smiling at his district partner.

He was taller than Calantha and certainly more muscular, his hands calloused and his fingernails chipped. He was fair-skinned, with short, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. His smile, though clearly forced, held as he nodded to each of the Victors in turn, then extended his hand to Calantha, who wiped her hands nervously on her pants before shaking it.

Neither of them noticed Leonel, who had returned to the first reaping bowl. "As the first replacement for Felicity Struthers … Elizabet Brower!"

Confused murmurs filled the crowd as the fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a short, faded green wool dress. For a moment, she stared, confused, at the escort, at the two tributes who already stood onstage. But, just as the Peacekeepers began to move towards her, she stepped forward obediently and followed them to the stage, taking her place beside the other two without complaint.

She was a bit taller than average – almost as tall as Beckett, in fact – but very thin. She was fair-skinned, with long, copper-brown hair and golden-brown eyes. Still a bit bewildered, she shook Beckett's outstretched hand without question, then turned to Calantha, who had started to cry once more. Elizabet stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before wrapping her arms around Calantha, embracing the other girl for a moment before turning her attention back to Leonel.

Leonel shook his head dismissively as he reached into the bowl once more. "As the second replacement for Felicity Struthers … Indira Serren!"

"Damn it," a voice grumbled loudly as the eighteen-year-old section parted for a girl in a simple, scoop-neck black dress and black flats. The girl was still swearing under her breath as she stepped forwards towards the stage, despite a nearby girl's obvious attempts to calm her down. Her fists were clenched tightly as she took the steps slowly, one by one, her swearing subsiding a little with each step.

The girl was tall and wiry, with dark skin and deep brown eyes. Her hair was thick and dark, almost black, and hung to the middle of her back. Finally, she managed to clench her mouth shut, holding back the storm that was bubbling just below the surface, forcing a smile as she turned towards her district partners.

Beckett couldn't hold back a smirk as he held out his hand. "Bad day?"

Presley braced herself for a full-blown fight as the girl opened her mouth. But, instead, to her surprise, what came out was a laugh. And not just a wry chuckle, but a full, rich laugh. "Could be better," the girl admitted. "You?"

"Could be worse," Beckett pointed out. "At least the company is good." He gestured towards his district partners.

Indira didn't miss a beat. "I bet. One of you, three of us. We'll have a blast."

It was Beckett's turn to laugh. "Not literally, I hope."

"Let's hope not," Indira agreed, shaking Beckett's hand and clapping him warmly on the back. Then she turned to Elizabet and Calantha, shaking each one's hand in turn.

Once the tributes had been led away, Glenn turned to Presley. "You should take those two. Beckett and Indira. They'll be a handful, but I think they'll work well together."

Presley nodded. "If that's all right with you two—"

Glenn smiled warmly. "Absolutely." He turned to Tess. "Calantha or Elizabet?"

Tess thought for a moment before answering. It was the first time she'd been asked to pick a tribute; Presley had insisted on having Tess as a mentor. After a moment, she decided. "Calantha."

Glenn nodded. "All right, then." He helped Tess up, and the three of them headed for the train.

For a moment, Presley felt fifteen years old again, on the way to the Capitol with Glenn and Tess. It was amazing what had changed since then – everything and nothing, all at once. She had thought, coming back from the Games, that she was safe. For six years, she had waited, hoping that things would go back to the way they were.

But they wouldn't. _She _wouldn't. She couldn't. Not now.

It was time for a change.

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16**

Everything was about to change.

Beckett leaned forward a little as his boyfriend Asher sank into the chair across from him. There were tears in Asher's eyes as Beckett laid a hand on his. "Check in on my mother every now and then while I'm gone, all right?" Beckett asked as casually as he could.

While he was gone. As if he was just going on a trip. As if he was going to see the sights in the Capitol, live the good life for a few days, and then come home. Of course, that was a possibility, but the Games loomed between the 'good life' part and the 'coming home' part.

His mother had taken it fairly well. Better than Beckett had expected. But, of course, this was just the beginning. It would hit her later, he was sure. When it did, he wanted someone to be there for her. And Asher was the only one he could depend on to do that.

It hadn't started that way. At first, he had envied Asher, who had seemed to have everything. Two loving parents. A good home. As much wealth as could be expected in Ten. Everything Beckett had once had. Everything he would never have again. At first, he had simply wanted to reconnect to that life. To experience everything he had lost.

But now things were different. Both of them had grown. What they had now was better. More real. Maybe his life wasn't perfect, but it was good.

And now everything was about to change again.

Even if he made it home, he would come home a killer. A murderer. Only one person had ever escaped the Games without blood on his hands, and that had been decades ago. If he came home changed, damaged, like Presley or even Tess … Would they still accept him? His mother. Asher. Would they still love him?

"Beck—" Asher started, but couldn't seem to get the words out.

Beckett squeezed Asher's hand tightly. "I'll be back soon."

Asher squeezed his hand back. "Just … just come back." He looked up. "I mean it, Beck. I don't care what you have to do. Whatever happens, you can get through it. Just … just come home."

Beckett nodded. "I love you."

Asher looked up, a bit surprised. He'd said it before, of course, but only after Asher had said it first. But he didn't want to forget to say it. Not now. Not when it mattered more than ever.

Not when everything was about to change.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15**

Everything had changed.

Elizabet sat staring at the closed door long after her family had left. It still didn't feel real. Didn't feel right. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be here. They had already called two names. They already had their tributes.

Why would they want her, too?

Elizabet buried her face in her hands. It didn't matter now. Didn't matter whether she was supposed to be here or not. She _was_ here, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was going to the Capitol. To the arena. To the Games.

Maybe to her death.

Elizabet shook her head. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to go. She just wanted to stay here, in District Ten, where things were … well, certainly not perfect. But good. She had a good family. Good friends. And that was usually enough to make up for the fact that they never seemed to have enough food to put on the table. That they had never been able to make ends meet without taking tesserae, without putting her life and little brother Kadence's life at risk.

The full weight of that risk had never truly hit her – not until now. At only fifteen years old, she'd already had her name in the reaping bowl twenty times. She'd already had more of a chance of being picked than some of the wealthy kids two or even three years older. Maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise…

Still, there were others. Older kids with larger families, just as poor. But they had gotten lucky – this year, at least. And she hadn't. That was all it was. Just luck.

And now she would have to get lucky again. Very lucky. Of the forty-one Victors so far, only three had been from District Ten. Only three of District Ten's tributes had come home. Three out of eighty-three.

Not exactly the best odds.

But three was better than none. That meant three more people who wanted to bring her home – her, or one of her district partners, at least. Three people who wouldn't be trying to kill her.

Maybe even three people who cared.

Elizabet took a deep breath. _Okay. Focus on that_. There were people who cared – both here, in District Ten, and people who would be in the Capitol with her. That was a little comfort, at least. There were people who cared. People who loved her. People who wanted her to come home.

And that would never change.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18**

Some things would never change.

Indira unclenched her fists as her brother Auron wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Their parents had already left, wanting to give them a moment together. Adopted parents, technically – just as Auron was technically her adopted brother – but she had never thought of them as anything but her family.

"So much for luck, huh?" Auron muttered. Indira smiled half-heartedly. Six years ago, after her first reaping, he had told her that it was good luck that her first reaping was his last. Since he'd made it through his seven years, he said, that meant she would, too.

She knew better now, of course. Auron had made it through seven years of the reaping not out of luck, but because of sheer numbers. Their family had never had to take tesserae, so even during his last year, Auron only had his name in the bowl the standard seven times. She'd had seven, as well, this year. There were so many kids – kids her age and even younger kids with poorer, larger families – who had their names in twenty, thirty, or even forty times. Pure mathematical sense said that Auron would probably be safe. That _she_ would probably be safe.

Probably.

But 'probably' hadn't been enough to protect her. Not this time. And 'probably' wouldn't get her through the Games. It wasn't up to the numbers now, and it certainly wasn't up to luck.

It was up to her.

And, as frightening as it was, part of her was glad. Glad that it wasn't up to chance, or fate, or whatever. Glad that she had some say in what happened, in how the Games played out.

Not that it was all up to her, of course. There were other players, too, each thinking the same thing. Each trying to figure out how they could make it home. Stronger players. Faster players. Smarter players. Players who had trained their whole lives for this.

And they would all have to die – every single one – if she was going to come home.

Indira wrapped her arms around Auron one last time before the Peacekeepers came. "I love you," she said quietly.

Auron held her close. "I love you, too … and you're coming back."

The words seemed to echo long after Auron had gone. _You're coming back._ He believed that. Truly believed that she had a chance of coming home. He would always believe in her, and, for that, she would always be grateful.

She hoped that would never change.

* * *

**Calantha Harlyn, 16**

She would have to change.

Calantha paced back and forth across the room, trying to keep from crying again. Her parents had come and gone. Her best friends, Maurice and Oregon, had followed. Then a few of her friends from school. Each one brought a new wave of tears as the reality sank in again and again: She might never see them again.

Calantha wiped the tears from her eyes. _Stop it. Stop crying._ She'd already made a mess of her first impression at the reaping. She couldn't afford to be seen as a crying weakling for the rest of the Games. She wasn't weak. Not really. She was just scared. Like everyone else.

But no one else had cried.

Calantha shook her head as she fingered the token her parents had left her: a small, round mirror – small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Her hands were shaking as she stared at her reflection, her face damp and her eyes red from crying. That would have to change. It would all have to change.

_She_ would have to change.

She would have to be strong now. Stronger than she'd ever been. Stronger than she'd ever wanted to be. She'd never seen herself as weak, but she'd never really thought of herself as particularly strong, either. Not in a way that was really special. She'd never really wanted to be special – not really. She just wanted to be herself.

But now that wouldn't be good enough.

Average wouldn't be good enough anymore. Normal wouldn't be good enough. The Capitol didn't want to see normal, everyday people. They wanted to see someone unusual. Someone new. Someone spectacular.

So that's what she would have to become.

It was an act. That was what she could say. The tears at the reaping – they were an act to gain people's pity. To make them _think_ she was weak. To avoid attention – to avoid her district partners' attention. Yes. Yes, that was good. They would ignore her at first. All the better. She didn't need them to pay attention to her. There were other people out there. Other people who would notice her. She could tell them it was all a lie – the weakness, the tears.

If only it were true.

Calantha clenched her fists tightly. It _could_ be true. It _would _be true, soon enough. She would be brave, strong, fearless – everything the Capitol wanted.

Slowly, she wiped the tears from her eyes, smoothed out her shirt, and slid the mirror into her pocket. Soon, the Peacekeepers would come for her. She would be on the train. Heading to the Capitol.

The change would have to start now.

* * *

"_I can't change the past. I can only take responsibility for it."_


	13. District Eleven: Chance

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _Burning Stars_, _Music Rules the World_, _nuttmeg_, and _MornieGalad Baggins _for Elani, Pan, Philus, and Shale, respectively.

* * *

**District Eleven  
****Chance**

* * *

**Tamsin Lane, 31  
****Victor of the 27****th**** Hunger Games**

She wished they had listened.

Tamsin slammed the phone down, still shaking her head. "Damn it. I _knew_ that wouldn't be the end of it. I knew it! But they didn't listen."

Marion abandoned her breakfast and joined Tamsin on the couch. "What happened?"

Tamsin shook her head. "That was Nicodemus. They're choosing extra tributes this year – two extra for every tribute who joined the rebels last year."

"So two extra boys," Marion concluded. "To replace Harris."

Tamsin nodded. Harris had been only fourteen years old. An orphan. No siblings, no family, and nothing to lose. Or so he had believed.

Marion slipped an arm around Tamsin's shoulders. "You did your best. You tried to tell him. And you had your own tribute to worry about. Harris was Elijah's responsibility."

"Fat lot of help he was. _He's got no one to lose, Tamsin. It's his own life to risk._" She shook her head. "That damn idealism of his is going to get your brother killed one day."

Marion chuckled a little. "You're a fine one to talk."

Tamsin smirked. "That wasn't idealism. That was pragmatism. I had a better chance than you in the Games, and we both knew it."

Marion shrugged. "A lot of people would've had a better chance than me. But only you volunteered. That wasn't pragmatism; it was love."

"Fine; it was love," Tamsin conceded. She leaned in closer to Marion, their lips locking for a moment before Tamsin pulled away. "But still not idealism."

Marion chuckled. "Have it your way."

Tamsin shook her head. "I risked my life, sure. But I risked it for _you_. Whether I lived or died in the Games, _you_ were safe. Harris risked his life – no, threw away his life – for … what?"

"For a chance at something better," Marion offered.

"But they never _had _a chance! That's what no one seems to understand. What did they _think _was going to happen? Did they really believe the Capitol would just let them all go?" For a moment, there was silence. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"I know. It's Maurice."

Tamsin looked away. She had grown up on the streets, just like Harris, too old to be taken in by a community home that was already overflowing with younger children who had no chance of fending for themselves. Maurice had been old even when she was a child; by the time Harris entered the Games, he must have been eighty, at least. He ran a small trinket shop on the edge of the district, and always paid orphans and other street urchins like herself more than a fair price for anything they managed to turn up.

Maurice had been the only one the Peacekeepers had been able to find who had any connection to Harris. The boy had known – as most orphans did – that he could count on Maurice for a drink of water or a crust of bread if the day had been rough. As far as Tamsin knew, neither Harris nor Maurice had been particularly fond of the other. But they had known each other in passing, and that was enough for the Peacekeepers.

Enough to cost Maurice his life.

Compared to the flamboyancy of the other districts, Maurice's execution was simple. Maybe the Peacekeepers were tired of the excessive bloodshed. Maybe they knew that, at Maurice's age, he wouldn't hold up long under any sort of torture. Or maybe they simply weren't feeling particularly creative.

Whatever the case, the Peacekeepers led the old man to a tall tree on the edge of the orchard. Then they tied his hands together, flung the other end of the rope over a branch, and hoisted him up as high as they could. Then they simply tied off the rope and left him there to die.

That could have been the end of it. It was terrible, of course. Unfair, certainly. But Maurice was an old man. How much longer would he really have lived? It sounded heartless, but Tamsin knew her old friend wouldn't have wanted what had happened next. He would never have wanted anyone else to die on his account.

But they did. That night, three men, four women, and five teenagers with clubs and torches attacked and killed the Peacekeeper who was guarding Maurice. As they hurried to cut the old man down, Maurice begged them to run, to save themselves, but it was too late. The other Peacekeepers arrived in time to subdue them. All twelve were beaten, whipped, and strung up to die in nearby trees.

The next night, there was no interference. One by one, all thirteen of them died, their bodies left hanging from the trees as a reminder.

And what had they been hoping to accomplish? Even if they had managed to free Maurice and get away safely … then what? Were they hoping to hide him somewhere? Where could they go? Had they been planning to flee the district altogether?

Chances were, of course, they hadn't had a plan at all. They hadn't really thought it through. They were angry – and rightfully so – but they had let that anger control them. They hadn't thought – hadn't thought of their own families, their own loved ones. Fortunately, the Peacekeepers hadn't sought out the families of those involved and executed them, as well … but they could have.

Or maybe they realized that it was crueler not to. Because where were those families now? Their fathers, mothers, siblings … all dead. Tamsin had no doubt that there were children starving somewhere on the streets because their parents and older siblings had let their anger cloud their good judgment.

"We can't tell Elijah," Marion said at last, breaking the silence.

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "They're choosing the extra tributes at the reaping. It's not exactly going to be a secret."

"I mean until the reaping. If we tell him now, he'll want to tell the rest of the district. People will be angry. They might do something…"

"Something stupid," Tamsin finished. Marion was right, of course. There was a reason Nicodemus had called her rather than Elijah, despite his three-year seniority as a mentor. He recognized that the mentors had a right to know, but he also trusted her to do what was best for her district. And, right now, that meant _not_ getting anyone else killed.

Anyone more than necessary, of course. Two extra tributes were going into the Games, regardless of how anyone reacted at the reaping. Two extra tributes were going to die. But that would be all. Only three or four deaths – all of them in the Games. No one else in the district would die.

That would be her victory this year.

So, for the next few hours, they kept their secret. The two of them kept mostly to themselves as the rest of the Whitaker family – Marion's brother Elijah, their parents, and their six brothers and sisters, the oldest of whom had families of their own – prepared for the reaping. No one seemed to notice that they were keeping their distance. All attention was on Tamsin's oldest nephew, Cooper, who was twelve this year.

With his name only in the reaping bowl once, he was as safe as he could be. No one in the Whitaker family had taken tesserae since Elijah's victory. But that hadn't stopped Marion from being reaped only three years after her brother. And with two extra male tributes…

_Stop it. _There was nothing to be done about it, anyway. Tamsin gripped Marion's hand tightly as their family headed for the square. Ivy joined them on the way, pausing to smooth out Cooper's suit. Tamsin couldn't hide a smile. Her own victory had lifted a burden from Ivy's shoulders; after more than two decades of mentoring – most of them alone – she could finally retire. Since then, she'd mellowed a bit, doting on the youngest of the Whitaker family with grandmotherly affection.

But she had never lost her spark. Ivy was a volunteer, herself, after all – the Hunger Games' very first volunteer – and that gave the two of them a special bond. Ivy's reasons had been different, of course. Orphaned in the war, she'd wanted to take control of her own life. An orphan herself, Marion knew she understood that in a way most people wouldn't. The desire for independence but also for stability – she understood that.

As they reached the square, the family exchanged hugs, and the three victors took the stage together. After a short speech by Mayor Haimish, District Eleven's escort, Audrina Varley, made her way to the first reaping bowl, reached in, and drew a slip of paper. "Elani Ingram!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a well-worn, dark purple dress and white sandals. Staring, the girl took a hesitant step forward. Then backwards. Another girl reached out to help steady her as she kept swaying, but, by that time, the Peacekeepers were making their way towards her. She stumbled along dizzily as they dragged her to the stage, staring at everything – the escort, the mayor, the victors, the crowd – in disbelief.

She was about average height and thin, with dark skin and dark brown eyes. Her curly, dark hair was pulled back with a faded purple hair band. For a moment, as she looked out at the crowd, she seemed like she might faint, but she managed to keep herself upright as Audrina made her way to the boys' bowl.

Tamsin's gaze found Cooper in the twelve-year-old section as Audrina dipped her hand into the bowl. She tried to smile. A little. _It'll be all right. She won't pick you_.

"Philus Polaine!"

The thirteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a faded blue tunic, loose-fitting, patched brown pants, and brown leather sandals. As the boy stared, dumbfounded, one of the boys behind him gave him a shove. The boy stumbled forward, but then kept moving. Through the crowd. Towards the stage.

He was dark-skinned, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was an inch or two taller than Elani – or would have been, had he managed to stay upright. As it was, as the boy took his place beside her, he let out a horribly guttural sob, his arms curling around his slender body to try to stop himself from shaking. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as Elani instinctively put her arms around him. "It's okay. It's okay. It'll be okay."

"Don't bother," Mayor Haimish shrugged. "The boy's obviously deaf."

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. It hadn't been obvious to her, but, now that the mayor mentioned it, she could see that the boy wasn't responding at all to Elani's words. "At least turn the cameras off," Ivy muttered.

"Nope. Reaping's not done," the mayor remarked.

Ivy looked about ready to throttle the mayor, but, of course, he was right. Audrina hadn't moved from her place by the boy's reaping bowl, and, as Tamsin turned to watch her, she removed another slip of paper. "As the first replacement for Harris Olmstead … Pan Soya!"

The twelve-year-old section parted near where Cooper was standing, but not for him. They were making way for a small boy in a well-worn brown shirt and faded black trousers. But the boy didn't move – not unless breathing counted. As the crowd watched, his breathing became more rapid, more desperate, his chest heaving violently up and down as the Peacekeepers scooped him up and carried him to the stage, dumping him roughly beside the others.

By then, Philus had calmed down at least enough to stand on his own, leaving Elani free to help the other boy up. "Tell him to hold his breath," the mayor muttered. Elani turned, surprised, but did as he said. The boy held his breath for a few seconds before letting go. The next time, he held it longer. Then a little longer. Soon, he was breathing regularly, though still crying uncontrollably.

He was shorter than both of the others and just as skinny, with dark skin, short black hair, and brown eyes. For a moment, the three of them stood there, huddled together. Tamsin glanced up at Audrina, who was watching them with disappointment. Finally, she turned back to the reaping bowl and chose one last slip. "As the second replacement for Harris Olmstead … Asher Avenheim!"

Tamsin tried to hide a sigh of relief. It wasn't Cooper. None of the names had been Cooper. Instead, the fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy who was looking around frantically. Desperately. For a moment, Tamsin thought he might have a panic attack, as well, but, suddenly, a voice interrupted. "I volunteer!"

Immediately, the boy – and another boy beside him – rushed forward, objecting. But the boy who stepped forward from the eighteen-year-old section would have none of it. "I volunteer," he repeated, urging them back to their own section before turning towards the stage. Slowly, calmly, he made his way up the stairs and took his place beside his three district partners.

He was easily at least a head taller than all three of them, dark-haired, dark-skinned and well-muscled beneath his black suit. His dark brown eyes scanned the crowd, finally coming to rest on the fifteen-year-old section. The boy managed a smile as he nodded towards the two boys who had tried to stop him.

Audrina, for her part, seemed much more pleased with him than with the first three prospects. "And what's your name, Dearie?"

The boy was clearly not pleased with being called 'Dearie' but knew better than to make a fuss about it. "Shale Avenheim," he answered, then turned towards his district partners, who were watching him curiously.

At last, Elani disentangled herself from Pan and Philus and held out her hand to Shale, who shook it briefly before turning to each of the boys in turn, shaking their hands as quickly and formally as possible. There was a cold politeness to his expression that left no doubt in Tamsin's mind; the boy wanted nothing to do with his younger, more vulnerable district partners.

The four of them were quickly herded off the stage. At last, Ivy sighed. "I'll—"

"No, you won't," Tamsin interrupted. "I'll take the three younger ones. Elijah, you can have Shale. We've got this, Ivy. Stay home."

Ivy blinked, surprised by her quick reaction. "You knew."

Mayor Haimish sighed. "Well, of course she knew. We're the second-to-last district to have our reaping today, and this has been going on since District Three. Old news. I'm surprised everyone didn't know."

Ivy glared. "Not everyone has time to watch ten other reapings, Mycr."

The mayor shrugged. "I didn't 'watch.' I _saw_. But never mind that." He turned to Tamsin. "You made the right call taking the three little ones. You're exactly what they need."

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "You think I can help one of them win?"

Mycr almost laughed. "No, of course not. But I think you can keep them from getting their families killed out of sheer stupidity. I think you can persuade them to go down fighting."

"And Shale?" Elijah asked.

Mycr shrugged dismissively. "I don't think there's any harm you can do this year. He's already willing to fight. And he would never do anything that might endanger his family. That's what'll get him killed."

Ivy sighed as Mycr left. "Don't mind him; he's been predicting District Eleven's losses for more than thirty years. He didn't think either of you was going to win, either."

"So he's been wrong twice," Tamsin observed. "Not a bad record."

"Three times," Ivy corrected. "He was wrong during the Ninth Games. But never mind that. You two have a train to catch."

Elijah nodded. "Take care of the rest of the family."

The rest of the family. Tamsin finally smiled a little as she and Elijah headed for the train. Family was the one thing she hadn't had until her Games, and now family was her best chance at getting her three younger tributes to play theirs. Sometimes the ones who were too timid or too frightened to fight for themselves would fight for their families, or for each other. It was a small chance, but it was a chance.

And a chance was all they needed.

* * *

**Pan Soya, 12**

He'd never had a chance.

Pan buried his face in his mother's shirt as his three-year-old brother and sister huddled close to them both. He had thought it was over. The Capitol had already taken his father and his older sister, both of whom had been part of the group who had tried to free old Maurice. He had watched them die – but only from a distance. The Peacekeepers had kept a heavy guard on the trees after one of them had been killed the first night. He had seen his sister die. Then his father.

Wasn't that enough?

But the Capitol wasn't done with them. It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. After losing her husband and daughter, his mother had flatly refused to let him take any tesserae. He'd had only one slip. One.

But they'd picked him, anyway.

Picked him to replace Harris. Harris, who had probably thought that he thought he had nothing to lose by joining the rebels. That he wouldn't be hurting anyone but himself.

Pan held Skye and Kane close. For the last year, his mother had left them with him while she'd worked in the fields, pulling extra hours just to earn enough to feed the four of them. Without him…

Pan swallowed hard. He had to make it back. He had to find a way.

But, in the back of his mind, the thought wouldn't go away. There was no chance. Not if they'd chosen him on purpose. Not if the Capitol wanted him dead. Not if he was truly playing not against the other tributes, but against the Capitol itself.

The Capitol always won.

Pan held his family close, trying not to cry. Trying to be brave – for their sakes, if not for his own. Trying to be strong.

But he didn't want to be brave. He didn't want to be strong. He wanted to be safe. He wanted to wake up and realize that it had all been a dream – the reaping, his sister and father's death, the Games last year. Maybe his whole life.

But it wasn't. He wasn't going to wake up. He was going to the Capitol. He was going to die.

And they would have to move on.

Pan squeezed his mother tightly one last time as the Peacekeepers opened the door. "Look after them," he said quietly, hoping she understood. _Look after them, because I won't be able to anymore. Look after them, because I won't be coming back._

_ Look after them, because I don't have a chance._

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13**

He didn't have a chance.

Philus took a deep breath as the Peacekeepers opened the door, the signal that it was time for his family to leave. They'd probably said something, as well, but Philus didn't bother to look. He didn't want to waste the little time he had left with his family staring at a Peacekeeper's mouth to figure out what he already knew the man was saying – that it was time for his family to go.

And soon it would be time for him to go.

Philus' mother wrapped her arms around him one last time, then gently slipped something into his hand. One of the Peacekeepers began to pull her away. Her lips were moving. Probably screaming. But Philus kept his gaze on her eyes. He didn't have to watch her lips to know what she was saying: _I love you_.

And, wordlessly, he said it back. One hand over his chest, the other held out to her, palm up. One of the first signs they had worked out as a family. The only thing that mattered anymore. Tears filled his mother's eyes as she returned the sign.

Then the door closed.

It was the last time he would see them; he knew it, deep down. They would see him, of course – on the screen in front of all of Panem. In a chariot. At the interviews. And then in the Games. Fighting. Bleeding. Dying.

It wasn't that he wanted to die. But what chance did he have? He was thirteen. Small. Skinny.

And deaf.

Philus closed his eyes, shutting out the world. Being deaf had never been a problem – not with his family. It was just the way things were. Other people spoke. He used signs to communicate. Signs that his family knew.

But the other tributes wouldn't. He could understand them well enough, but understanding him would take effort. Effort they might not be willing to give. Who would want him as an ally when they could have someone else? Someone they could communicate with quickly and easily?

Philus wrapped his arms across his chest. Maybe the girl. The girl at the reaping. She had tried to help him. Tried to comfort him. She had been kind, when she'd had every reason not to be. Maybe…

Philus opened his eyes, glancing down at the object his mother had slipped into his hand. A small coin, with an "11" engraved on one side and an intricately carved sunset on the other.

Or maybe a sunrise. But a sunset seemed more appropriate. Because even if he found an ally or two – even if there was someone who was willing to work with a young, deaf tribute – what chance did he really have, in the end? When it came down to his life or theirs, was there anyone who would choose to help him?

What chance did he really have?

* * *

**Elani Ingram, 14**

What chance did she really have?

Elani sat staring at the door. The door that had closed behind her parents, her brother, her friends. The door that wouldn't open again until the Peacekeepers came to take her to the train. The train that would take her to the Capitol. The Capitol that would send her to the arena.

The arena that would mean her death.

Elani buried her face in her hands. That was what the Games meant, in the end: She was going to die. What chance did she really have? With extra tributes. Older, stronger tributes. Faster tributes. Smarter tributes. Trained tributes. Tributes who wouldn't hesitate to kill any of them.

Them. Elani wiped a few tears from her eyes. Was that what they already were – her, Philus, and Pan? The three little ones? The ones no one thought could win? The three little tributes from District Eleven whom no one would be betting on?

Elani closed her eyes. Clenched her fists. Maybe. Maybe they were. And maybe that was the way it should be. Maybe with three of them…

But only one person came out of the Games alive. Only two years ago, three younger tributes – the boys from Three, Six, and Eight – had made it to the final three. For days, the Gamemakers left them alone in that abandoned library arena, until, finally, frightened by something lurking in the shadows or perhaps by his own imagination, the boy from Eight had killed the other two.

He'd berated himself for it during the Victory Tour, Elani remembered, but there had been no way around it. Two of them had to die. Only one person could win the Games.

And even if they worked together, even if the three of them made it far, even if they made it all the way to the end … If she wanted to live, Philus and Pan would have to die.

Elani clenched her fists. Would she be able to do it, if it came down to that? Would she be able to kill them? Would any of them be able to kill her?

Or would it be best not to work with them in the first place? Not to get to know them? Not to get attached?

Elani shook her head. She wasn't fooling anyone – especially herself. She was already attached. They were already a team – in everyone else's mind, certainly. And even her own.

Maybe, together, they had a chance.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18**

He wouldn't have had a chance.

Shale clenched his fists as Karinth continued his tirade. If things didn't go his way in the Games, he didn't want the last thing the youngest ones remembered about him to be an argument between their two oldest brothers. They had to stick together. They had to stay a family. And, whether Karinth recognized it or not, that had meant volunteering for Asher.

Because, as soon as Asher's name had been called, he had known. Asher wouldn't have stood a chance. Not necessarily because of his physical capabilities. Asher was as strong as any other child in District Eleven who had spent most of their life in the fields. He wasn't physically remarkable, but he was capable.

But he never would have survived his district partners.

Three little children. Young. Vulnerable. In need of someone to protect them. Asher wouldn't have been able to resist. He would have befriended them in a heartbeat, and they would have been the death of him.

But Shale could do what his little brother couldn't. He could say no.

"How could you do this to us?" Karinth finished at last, still breathing hard, his face red. There was silence for a moment. "Are you just going to sit there? Aren't you going to say anything?"

Shale took a deep breath. "Are you finished?"

Karinth glared, red-faced. "What?"

Shale glared. "Are. You. Finished?"

Karinth gritted his teeth. "Yes."

Shale nodded. "Good. Because we don't have a lot of time. And if I don't make it back … then you're in charge. You're seventeen now. You're not a child anymore. You have to take care of them, if I can't."

Karinth nodded, but Shale knew he didn't understand. Not really. Ever since their parents died, Karinth had been distant. He had pulled away. Would he be able to hold the family together if…?

Maybe. Maybe not. The best thing he could do now was make sure they would never have to find out. The best thing he could do for them was to make it home.

If only it was that easy.

Shale took a deep breath as the door opened. One by one, his brothers left. Last of all, Asher and Raver lingered. Shale held the twins close one last time. "Look after your brothers," he said at last. "And each other."

Asher nodded, trying not to cry. "Just … come back."

"I'll do my best," Shale promised as the Peacekeepers dragged them away. And he would. But would his best be enough? With so many other tributes…

Shale shook the thought from his head. He had a chance. Maybe not a large chance, but a chance. And better than some. It certainly wouldn't be easy, but it was possible. It had to be.

He had to have a chance.

* * *

"_This is our best chance."_

"_There's no chance. Really. I mean, look where we are."_


	14. District Twelve: Choice

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note:** A few things now that we're done with the reapings. First, there's a poll on my profile asking which tributes are your favorites. The poll will be up through the end of the train rides, so if you want see the tributes again before voting, that's fine. Vote for as many or as few as you like. As usual, feel free to vote for your own tribute; just let me know who else you like, too.

Second, now that you've met all the tributes, if you have any alliance ideas, please let me know. I've already got some ideas, but, with 46 tributes, there are _lots _of different possibilities, so whatever input you might have is very helpful. Careers, you're included in this, as the chances of all the Careers being lumped into a single pack are very, very slim. Let me know which other Careers you'd like to see your tribute with.

Last, thank you to _Axe Smelling God _and _Jalen Kun _for Eleanor and Barry, respectively.

* * *

**District Twelve  
****Choice**

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 32  
****Victor of the 25****th**** Hunger Games**

"I wish there was more I could do."

Brennan gripped the phone with his good hand. Two extra tributes for every rebel. But District Twelve…

Brennan took a deep breath. "You've done plenty, Nic. We'll be fine here."

"I hope so," Nicodemus agreed. "You and your tributes had no part in this. But the president…"

The president. President Silas Grisom. It still sounded strange, after all these years of thinking of him as a mentor. The man who had helped him through the 25th Hunger Games. Surely he would realize that he'd had nothing to do with the previous year's rebellion. That District Twelve was innocent.

Innocent. As if the others weren't. As if the rebels had committed some crime by refusing to fight each other. As if the tributes who had been coerced or even threatened into joining them had truly meant to defy the Capitol. As if there had been something good, something right, about persuading his tributes to fight to the death, instead.

But he had. And they had died. They had gone down fighting, back to back, surrounded by the rebels. But their families were still alive. And, somewhere in District twelve, there were four children who were safe. Four children who wouldn't be reaped today, because he had sacrificed two last year.

Did that make their deaths right? Maybe not. But it was better than the alternative.

"We'll be fine," Brennan repeated. "Get yourself to the reaping, Nic. Worry about your own district. I'll see you soon. And Nicodemus?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Brennan."

Brennan gently set the phone down. "Who was that, Mr. Aldaine?" asked a tiny voice.

Brennan glanced down to see a little girl – perhaps seven or eight, certainly too young for the reaping. One of the children who wandered in and out of his shop every day. Reaping day was slower than most, but there had still been a steady trickle of customers throughout the morning.

'Customers' he still called them, although half of them didn't pay. But the other half did, and that was enough to fill the small bucket he left on the counter. Not that he needed the money. Technically, victors weren't even required to work, and the money the Capitol sent him on a monthly basis was more than enough for him to live on – and to purchase the materials he needed for his shop.

His shop. It hadn't started that way. He had started out making small gifts for the families of tributes who had died in the Games. First the tributes from his own Games, and then each of the tributes he had mentored. But, as time passed, he had started making other things – everyday items like plates, cups, and candlesticks, as well as figurines, puppets, dolls, balls, and other sorts of toys. Now the first floor of his house served as his shop, with the yard in the back set up as a workshop.

As for the money he made in the shop, he usually ended up giving it away to anyone who needed it. Beggars, orphans, those who were having difficulty making ends meet. At first, he had done so out of guilt. He had been trying – in any way he could – to make up for what he had done during the Games. Any bit of good he could do – it helped.

That was how it had started. But, eventually, it had become more than that. The children who came into his shop now hadn't even been born when he'd won his Games. They didn't realize the horrors of what he had done. They knew he was a Victor, yes, but the younger ones didn't fully realize what that meant, and the older ones didn't care.

To them, he wasn't a killer. He was the kind shopkeeper who gave out trinkets and bread and occasionally sweets. He was the one who had opened his home to anyone seeking a warm place to rest for the night. And if a few of them took up residence in one of the many empty houses in Victors' Village, well, he was the one who certainly wasn't going to tell the Peacekeepers. That was who he was to them.

And that was who he wanted to be. Who he'd always wanted to be. The Games were part of his life, certainly – a part he would never forget. He had killed five people. Five. Including his district partner and ally, Blythe. But he hadn't killed out of malice or bloodlust. He had killed so that he could come home. So that he could live.

And he meant to do just that.

"That was a friend," Brennan answered at last. "Never mind that right now. What can I do for you, Doria?"

The girl held up a small puppet she had found on one of the shelves. "Is this for sale?"

Brennan nodded, smiling a little. The girl knew as well as anyone else. Only one item in the store wasn't for sale: a pair of candlesticks on the front desk. The candles themselves were nothing special, but the candle_sticks_…

They had been a gift – one of the first gifts he had made, after his own Games. He'd made them for the family of one of his allies, Grace Sawyer from District Ten. But the next year, his first year as a mentor, Glenn had brought them to the Capitol to return them to Brennan. Grace would've wanted him to have them, Glenn had said, now that her family…

Her family was dead. No fuss. No public execution. One day, they were just … gone. No one in the district talked about it, Glenn said – at least not openly. Privately, there were those who remembered them, but, publicly, they had been forgotten.

But he wouldn't forget. He would never forget. Grace had given her life so that he and Blythe could escape a pack of mutts. The mutts had led her into a trap, where the Gamemakers had burned her alive, incinerated her body until all that remained was a pile of ashes. He wouldn't forget that.

He would never forget that.

Doria dropped a coin in the bucket and scurried out the door. Brennan smiled a little as he watched her go. Grace had given her life for him. Thirty-five tributes had died that year. He had lived. Maybe it wasn't right. But it had happened. And the best way to remember them – the best way to honor them – was to move on.

Brennan turned and headed outside to his workshop.

He spent the next few hours tinkering. Not intending to make anything in particular – just dabbling with a little bit of this and that. He had quickly found that his best work happened when he didn't have a clear goal. When he wasn't sure what he wanted to make, but, instead, simply made what he felt like he _needed _to make.

A few hours later, he was putting the final touches on a birdhouse.

He was just setting it out to dry when his parents came by. A few years after his victory, they'd moved out of his house in Victors' Village and into the next one over. Officially, the other houses were supposed to remain unoccupied until other Victors came along to claim them. But, as the only Victor in District Twelve, Brennan had managed to convince the Peacekeepers and the mayor that there was no harm in letting his parents live next door, instead.

But they were never far. Sometimes he wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but it was what they needed. They had almost lost him once. If coming over every day to check on him helped them sleep a little better at night … Well, what harm did it do?

He certainly wasn't going to argue, especially when they wouldn't see him for a couple weeks. So he smiled. He let his father straighten his suit five different times. He let his mother hug him for a full twenty seconds before she finally let go. They weren't hurting anything. And they loved him. The rest didn't matter.

"Maybe this year will be better," his mother offered as she handed him a brand new pair of gloves. A new pair every year. Crisp. Fresh. Coal black. She thought it was good luck, and he didn't have the heart to argue.

Nor did he have the heart to tell her that this year certainly wasn't going to be better. Whether he ended up bringing a tribute home or not, the Games would almost certainly be worse. Even if District Twelve was spared the burden of having to send extra tributes, Brennan had no doubt there would be unexpected surprises once the Games began. Having extra tributes wasn't enough…

It hadn't been enough seventeen years ago, either. There had been extra tributes during his Games, but they had also forbidden volunteers. Once they were in the arena – a space station – the lights had prevented them from telling whether it was day or night … or how long they'd been in the arena. Cannons had still sounded, but there had been no faces in the sky at night, leaving them very little idea of who was left, beyond the tributes they had encountered personally. The arena had been Head Gamemaker Helius Florum's crowning achievement.

Florum was gone, living happily and quietly somewhere in the Capitol. Five Head Gamemakers had come and gone since then, none quite living up to his legacy. The sixth, Tamika Ward, was returning for her fourth year. There had been rumors that she might be executed over last year's fiasco, but the president had decided otherwise.

President Grisom.

Brennan shook his head as he and his parents headed for the square. Silas had assumed the presidency almost a year ago, and it still didn't feel real. At first, he had hoped that Silas might be more lenient. And, after President Snow, he had certainly seemed that way at first. But this…

But this was the same Silas Grisom who had sent him a message in the arena. A message that had led him to his former ally, Blythe, after the two had split. The same Silas Grisom who had lured them together so that one of them could kill the other. Who had known that Brennan was armed. That Blythe wasn't. The Silas Grisom who had known what had to be done and had done it without hesitation.

Whatever was in store this year, Brennan had no doubt that Silas thought it was necessary. To keep the peace. To keep the districts in line. To keep the Capitol in power. To prevent what had happened the year before.

It was wrong. It was terrible. It was ruthless.

But it made sense.

As they reached the square, Brennan's parents headed for the adult section, and Brennan took the stage, trying to smile at District Twelve's brand new escort, who couldn't possibly have been more than twenty years old. The boy was grinning like an idiot. A lime-green-haired, pointy-bearded, pink-skinned idiot who had probably never left the Capitol in his life.

But Brennan smiled, anyway. Because that was what was expected. Because the more a mentor seemed to get along with an escort, the more open he seemed towards the Capitol. And being open towards the Capitol could help tributes get sponsors. It was stupid. It was annoying. But if it might help save a tribute's life, it was worth it.

So he smiled as the kid held out his left hand, grinning. "Valentine Sullivan! And you must be Brennan Aldaine!"

_Obviously. _But at least Valentine had done his homework. Brennan shook his left hand firmly as Mayor Marxs joined them onstage, then took a seat as quickly as possible as Valentine turned his attention to the mayor, instead.

Brennan glanced out at the crowd as the mayor began his speech. After giving a short speech himself, Valentine stepped up to the first reaping bowl and plunged his hand in dramatically. His bright pink fingers swirled the slips of paper until he finally got ahold of one, which he unfolded slowly, carefully. "Eleanor Marxs!"

Mayor Marxs froze as the sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a long, light purple dress, white stockings, and white shoes. The girl looked around, shocked, as the crowd began to whisper. Finally, she took a few steps towards the stage. Then a few more. There were tears in her eyes as she made her way up the stairs, and, when she looked up at her father, a few finally fell.

She was about average height and thin, with almond brown skin and long, black hair. Her brown eyes were wide and frightened as she met her father's gaze. The mayor's hands were shaking, but he knew. Knew that anything he did now would affect his daughter's chances. So he simply nodded towards the crowd. Shaking, Eleanor turned to face the crowd and even managed a small smile.

Valentine, clearly delighted to have picked someone so significant as his very first tribute, took a few moments to make his way to the second bowl. He was practically hopping up and down with excitement as he reached in, swished the papers around a little, and drew a slip. Once again, he took his time unfolding it, as if doing so might have some effect on the name that was written. "Barry Zephir!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white collared shirt and black dress pants. As soon as Brennan's gaze found him, however, the boy started to back up – slowly, at first, but, as the Peacekeepers started making their way towards him, the boy began to run. The crowd parted for him as he sprinted towards the back, but he had barely made it to the end of the thirteen-year-old section before they caught him and dragged him to the stage. All the while, the boy was kicking. Flailing. Fighting as much as he could.

But it did no good; the Peacekeepers dumped him next to Eleanor. The boy scrambled to his feet, ready to run again, but Brennan sprang up and clamped his good hand firmly around the boy's wrist. "Don't."

The boy whirled around, startled. He was about average height but very thin and wiry. His messy blonde hair was already damp with sweat, his deep blue eyes wide with fright. Brennan knew that look. He was scared – scared enough to ignore the fact that running would do him no good. Fighting would do him no good. Right now, the boy didn't care. He wasn't thinking. He just didn't want to die.

The boy tried to pull away, but Brennan's grip held. "Save it for the arena," he said quietly, hoping that was the right thing to say. The right motivation. Hoping the boy wouldn't simply burst into tears at the thought of the arena.

He didn't. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy straightened up, took a deep breath, and nodded. Brennan let go. The boy stayed put, turning towards his district partner. "Well, shake hands, then!" Valentine beamed.

Brennan sank back into his chair as the two shook hands. The reaping was over. Only two tributes. District Twelve had been spared.

Mayor Marxs, on the other hand, was understandably unrelieved. As soon as the cameras switched off, he turned to Brennan. "You have to bring my daughter back." He had stopped shaking now, and his voice was strong and firm. This wasn't a request. It was an order.

Brennan kept his voice as calm as he could. "Sir, I'll do my best, but—"

"But nothing." The mayor rose immediately to his full height, easily a half a foot taller than Brennan, who quickly stood, as well. "Eleanor comes home. That's it."

"Sir, you know that's not how the Games work. No matter what I do—"

"Oh, I know. But I also know you mentors play favorites. I know how easily it could've been someone else coming home instead of you, if your mentor had played things a little differently. And I saw what you did for that boy just now. That's not how it's going to be, you hear? If that kid comes home instead of my daughter…"

Brennan shook his head. The man had no idea what he was talking about. Blythe hadn't stood a chance, regardless of how Silas had played his part. Silas hadn't played favorites; he had simply recognized his best option. And maybe he wasn't proud of it, but _he_ had been that best option.

And maybe Eleanor was the best option. Or maybe Barry was. More likely than not, it wouldn't matter what he thought, what he did. In the sixteen years he'd mentored, he'd never truly been in a position to choose which tribute to help. Sponsors weren't exactly lining up in droves to support District Twelve. Generally, by the time he could scrape together enough sponsors to send something useful to a tribute, only one of the two was left. And the one time they'd both made it far enough to receive any meaningful help, they were working together, anyway.

But there was no point in telling the mayor that. Any of it. So Brennan took a step forward. "Let me make one thing clear, Sir. I don't work for you. I don't mentor for you. I mentor for District Twelve. Every year, I go out there and try to bring a tribute home. It's not easy. It's not fun. But I am doing the very best that I can. And there's nothing you could possibly say that could make me try any harder. Sixteen years, and I haven't brought a tribute home. If I can bring Eleanor back, I will. If I can bring Barry back, I will. If I can't … I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" the mayor repeated.

Brennan nodded, his expression neutral. "I'm really not sure what else you want me to say. I'll do my best. They'll do theirs. But, so far, that hasn't been enough. So, if this year doesn't go our way, either, then, yes, I'm sorry."

With that, he turned and headed for the train. Only after he was safely aboard did his stony expression drop. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "Okay. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse."

And it could. He only had two tributes. They were both reasonably healthy. They were older – older than last year's tributes, at least. They both had a chance.

He just hoped he didn't have to make a choice.

* * *

**Elanor Marxs, 16**

She finally had a choice.

Eleanor wrung her hands together as she stared at the door. Her family had left. She wasn't really expecting anyone else. Soon enough, the Peacekeepers would come for her. She would be on a train to the Capitol.

And there was nothing her father could do about it.

A small smile found its way to Eleanor's face. Her father meant well, of course. He meant to keep her safe. She was rarely allowed to leave the house, and, even then, he made sure she was accompanied. He didn't know she snuck out at nights. Just to walk around the district. Just to see people, finally, up close. He didn't realize how much it meant to her – to be able to see the people she spent her life dreaming about.

Now he would never know.

Eleanor let out a deep breath. As much as her father tried, he couldn't keep her safe forever. He couldn't protect her from the Games. She knew she should be frightened. Terrified. She should still be crying. The Games weren't safe. She would never be safe again.

But she didn't want to be safe anymore. She was tired of being safe. She had spent her whole life safely within her house's walls – and for what? None of that had protected her from the greatest danger in the districts. There was nothing her father could do. Nothing she could do. She was probably going to die.

But, first, she would live.

And she wanted that, more than anything. She wanted to see the train. She'd never been on a train before, but she'd heard they went wonderfully fast. And then the Capitol. The parade. The crowds. The lights. The show.

She knew she shouldn't be looking forward to it. It felt wrong, somehow, to even think about enjoying it all. But where was the harm? If she was going to die, at least she could enjoy a few days of … maybe not freedom, but certainly more freedom than she'd ever had in her life. She wouldn't be locked up in a little room in the Capitol. She could see the other tributes.

She could talk to them.

Eleanor's heart began to beat faster at the thought. She could finally talk to people – people who weren't her family, people who weren't constantly worried about her safety. People who could help her. People who could kill her. She knew she should be careful, but she was _tired _of being careful.

She just wanted to live.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15**

He hadn't had a choice.

Barry shook his head as he paced the room. Running at the reaping had been stupid. Pointless. But he hadn't had a choice – not really. He'd wanted to do _something_. He couldn't just go meekly to the stage, like the girl had. He couldn't just let them take him away without a fuss. Without a fight. He didn't want to go.

But he was going.

Barry clenched his fists. _Save it for the arena._ That was what Brennan had said. And he would know. He'd won not just any Hunger Games, but the first Quarter Quell. Three tributes per district. Thirty-six tributes. And Brennan had still come out on top.

The sound of the door opening shook Barry from his thoughts. He whirled around, confused. His parents had come and gone. Kellen. A few friends from school. Who else would be coming?

When he saw Hazel, though, a grin broke out across his face. Hazel took a hesitant step forward and opened her mouth, but Barry beat her to it and threw his arms around her. "I didn't think you'd be coming!"

Hazel almost never spoke to him. Barely looked at him. Despite his best efforts to be friendly, she had never shown the slightest interest in him. And yet here she was, coming to say goodbye. Maybe that was just common courtesy. Or maybe it meant something more.

Once Barry released her from the hug, Hazel reached up and removed one of her hairpins. "For your district token … if you don't already have one."

Barry shook his head. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He didn't have anything special – nothing he'd want to take into the arena, at least. He took the hairpin and stuck it into his own hair at an angle, messing it up even more.

Hazel almost giggled.

Almost.

So close.

Instead, she took a step closer. "Look at it every now and then, if you're starting to lose hope – and remember what you have to come home to." Then, just like that, she turned and left, leaving Barry staring, open-mouthed, at the closed door.

Girls were confusing.

After a moment, he shook his head. That didn't matter now. But she was right; he had a lot to come home to. A lot to live for. So much that he still hadn't seen. So much that he hadn't done. Now, more than ever, he knew what he wanted.

He just wanted to live.

* * *

"_Whatever he's told you, I want you to understand one thing: You have a choice."_


	15. Train Rides: The Real World

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **A quick note on the train rides: They're going to be split into four chapters, with three districts in each. Each district is written from one tribute's point of view. This does _not _mean that I like that particular tribute better or anything like that. It just means the chapter worked a bit better from that tribute's point of view. Also, the districts aren't going in order; they're clustered together based on which ones fit with the particular chapter's theme.

On a different note, I'm having another go at Camp NaNoWriMo this month, so expect updates to be pretty frequent.

* * *

**Train Rides  
****The Real World**

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

"This is exactly what they deserve."

Jaime nodded along as Inviticus chimed in for the third time while they watched the reapings. He wasn't entirely wrong, of course. The Capitol needed some way to punish the districts for rebelling last year. Some way of keeping them in line. Adding extra tributes for the rebellious districts made sense. Maybe it _was _exactly what they deserved.

But Inviticus didn't seem to understand – or maybe simply didn't care about – what it would mean for them. Extra tributes – even outer-district tributes – meant lower odds. Twenty-two extra tributes, she counted, by the time District Twelve was shown. Nearly double the regular number. And four of the extras were Careers.

Six Careers from District Four. Two from One, two from Two. And if they were counting the two from Five, as well, that made twelve. Twelve Careers. That changed everything.

Jade, at least, seemed to be on the same page. "All right, then," he nodded as the tape switched off. "Twelve of you."

Inviticus shook his head. "Three."

Jade cocked an eyebrow, leaning back patiently in his chair. "Apparently, I need a lesson in counting. Which three?"

Inviticus nodded towards Jaime. "Her. Me. And the girl from Two. The boy's clearly not a Career. None of the mentors even knew who he was."

"But District Four—" Jasper started.

"District Four rebelled last year. The Capitol will be targeting them. So should we."

Jaime shook her head. "They're not all rebels."

"How do you know? How do you know they're not planning the same stupid stunt they tried to pull last year? Better not to take the chance."

"Okay, but District Five—"

"District Five is loyal, that's for sure. But they're not trained as well. We have an academy. Their academy is one Victor training potential recruits in her back yard. They're good, but they're not good enough. They'd slow us down."

"So you think it should just be the three of us?" Jamie asked with a scowl. "Three Careers? You call that a pack?"

"I call that efficient. Six-member or even five-member packs often have trouble agreeing. There's conflict – sometimes early conflict that could rip the pack apart. Three of us can be effective. Three of us can be decisive."

"Three of you can be overwhelmed," Jade countered. Inviticus opened his mouth to argue, but Jade held up a hand. "You're not wrong. Not entirely. There are advantages to a smaller pack. I had a three-member pack myself, if you even want to call it that. And you're right; we were more decisive. We were effective – obviously. I'm sitting here, after all," he finished with a smirk.

Jaime shook her head. "So you're agreeing with him?"

"Not entirely. I'm saying it's a possibility. At this point, that's all we have – possibilities. And we shouldn't discount any of them." He turned to Inviticus. "I think you're right about the girl from Two. Let's talk about District Four."

"I don't trust them."

"Fair enough. But tell me – What do you think will happen if you reject them all out of hand?" After a moment of silence, he glanced around. "Anyone?"

"They'll form their own pack," Jaime offered. "There are six of them – all trained, from the look of them. Six of them, three of us. We're outnumbered two to one."

Jasper nodded. "Exactly. And that's not even counting the two from Five."

"You can't afford to exclude all of District Four," Jade agreed. "There's strength in numbers, and they have it. Decide which ones you can trust and which ones you can't. That goes for District Five, as well. See what they have to offer; they might surprise you."

"I doubt it," Inviticus mumbled.

Jade chuckled. "Doubt it all you like. Do you know who the other two members of my pack were?"

Jaime and Inviticus glanced at each other, unsure. Jade turned to Jasper, who answered. "The girl from Four and the boy from Seven."

Jade nodded. "Exactly. Neither of them had volunteered – and neither of them, certainly, was what we would call a Career today – but they were both strong. Capable. They were good allies."

"And you killed them both," Jaime pointed out.

"I did," Jade agreed. "And that's the other thing. Alliances don't last forever. You don't have to trust them forever. Just long enough. And it might even be a good idea to have the ones you _don't _trust as allies. That way, when the time comes to go after them, you don't have to go looking for them."

Jaime nodded along as the other three kept talking. Until they got to the Capitol and actually _met _the other Careers, most of this speculation was pointless. Three-member packs. Six-member packs. Even if they formed a six-member pack, the remaining Careers could form one just as strong.

Jaime leaned back, listening. They had discussed strategy during training, of course. But the best option had always seemed rather straightforward – stick with the Career pack that usually formed, and leave when things started to crumble. But now…

Maybe it was better to avoid the choice altogether.

Eventually, Inviticus and Jasper wandered off to discuss a little more privately. Jaime leaned forward a little, closer to Jade. "There are going to be two packs, aren't there. No matter who Inviticus wants to let join his, there will still be some left over. Enough for another pack, or even two."

Jade nodded. "Probably, yes."

"And if there are two packs … They'll probably target each other, right? They'll see each other as the biggest threat."

Jade seemed to know where she was going. "You're wondering if it would be better to simply split off at the beginning. To avoid being part of a pack at all."

"Less of a target," Jaime pointed out.

"Less support," Jade countered. "Fewer allies generally means fewer sponsors."

"But—"

Jade held up a hand. "I didn't say you're wrong. Just that you should think it through. There is no easy answer. There is no right or wrong. There is no single strategy that works _all the time_. People have won without allies. People have won after having a large group of allies. It depends on the person, the other tributes, the arena, the crowd … So many things."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"That you keep your options open. Don't rule out working with a group. But, after training, after the interviews, when it comes time for the Games, if you still want to go it alone, that's your choice."

Jaime nodded. That wasn't much of an answer. But Jade was right. It was still too early to decide. But now, at least, she had a plan.

That was good enough for her.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

"Do they really deserve this?"

Zach was almost shocked to hear the words coming out of his own mouth. The districts had rebelled. They had defied the Capitol. Of course they deserved this. They probably deserved far worse.

"That depends." Harakuise leaned forward in his chair, his eyes never leaving the screen as district after district played.

"On what?" Zach asked, surprised. Harakuise was known throughout the district as a strong Capitol supporter. If _he_ didn't think they deserved this…

Harakuise shrugged. "Depends on what you mean by 'they.' If by 'they' you mean the districts, collectively, then the answer is yes. As a whole, they rebelled last year, and these are the consequences. Do they deserve to lose an extra tribute or two to replace the ones from last year? Yes."

Zach nodded. That made sense. Camden was nodding, as well. "But…" she prompted.

Harakuise smiled fondly. "But if you mean 'they' on a more individual basis, then the answer is no. Does that little girl walking to the stage really deserve this? Does she really deserve to be sent to her death? Probably not. Chances are, she didn't have a hand in what happened last year. Chances are, she didn't have anything to do with the rebels. A few of them, maybe, but most of them? Relatively speaking, they're innocent."

"But that's no different from how the Games normally work," Camden pointed out. "Sure, there's an occasional rebel or someone with rebel ties, but even in a typical year, most of the tributes are just normal, everyday kids. They're not particularly rebellious. They didn't do anything to deserve this. The other tributes in my Games – they didn't _deserve _what happened. But it happened. That's how the Games work. That's how they _have _to work."

"That's the whole point of the Games," Harakuise agreed. "And that's the real deterrent for any rebellion in the future. Every so often, you'll find a brave soul who's willing to risk their life for a cause. But when you remind them that innocent people will die – innocent people who weren't involved in any way – they think a bit harder. And they usually reconsider."

"Which is why the Games are such a clever punishment," Camden nodded. "They remind people that their actions have consequences not just for themselves, but for generations to come."

Generations to come. Zach shook his head. "Do you think…?" He trailed off. "No, it's not important."

Harakuise chuckled a little. "Thinking is always important. What is it, Zach?"

Zach looked up. "Do you think this is a permanent change? That the districts will have to keep sending extra tributes? I know it doesn't affect District Five, but—"

"Of course it affects District Five. Oh, not directly, of course. But having extra tributes in the Games affects everyone. You're one of forty-six now instead of one of twenty-four."

"But do you think…?"

"I don't know," Harakuise admitted. "I think that will depend on what happens this year. How people respond. If President Grisom thinks this needs to continue in order to keep the districts in line, then it'll be a permanent change. If not, then it won't. He understands the importance of flexibility."

Liana drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Who cares?"

Harakuise chuckled a little. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean who cares if it's going to be a permanent change or not? I'm not here to worry about what's going to happen in the 43rd Games or the 50th Games of the 100th Games. I want to win _this_ year. I don't care about next year; _this_ year has extra tributes. Let's deal with that."

Harakuise nodded. "Fair enough. You were watching the same reapings I was. What did you see?"

"A lot of extra tributes."

"More specifically."

Liana hesitated. "Extra Careers?"

Camden nodded. "Bingo. How many?"

"Four extras from Four. So twelve total," Zach answered.

"That makes for a rather large pack," Camden remarked.

"Or two or three smaller packs," Zach pointed out.

Camden grinned. "Exactly. So you'll have to decide whose pack to join."

Liana shrugged. "The stronger one, obviously."

Harakuise shook his head. "They're all Careers. They're all strong – but in different ways. Look at the Career victors we have. Harriet didn't win the same way Mortimer did. Camden didn't win the same way Jasper did. Strength means different things in different arenas."

Camden nodded. "In a zoo arena, animal knowledge is strength. In a field arena, plant knowledge is a strength."

Liana crossed her arms. "What about weapons?"

Harakuise shrugged. "Weapons are a strength anywhere. But there may not always be the weapons you want. My year, there were knives. Different types of knives, sure, but that was it. Didn't matter one bit if you could use a bow or a spear or a club – unless you were planning to make your own."

"So knowing how to _make _weapons is also a strength," Camden agreed.

Liana shook he head, impatient. "So what's the answer?"

Harakuise smirked. "The answer?"

"To whose pack to join. Who should we ally with?"

Harakuise shook his head. "There is no answer. Not right now, at least. It's not that easy. And you may not have much of a choice."

Zach cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that whoever's heading up the Career pack can afford to be picky. If they don't want you, they don't have to take you. They don't have to worry about numbers this year. There will probably end up being two packs – one with more skilled, talented fighters and one with those who didn't quite make the cut."

"So we want to be in the first group," Liana guessed.

"Not necessarily," Camden pointed out. "During my own Games, I managed to convince the other Careers to let me join their pack during training. But they still saw me as an outsider. Once we were in the Games, they turned on me immediately. You don't want that."

"Turned out all right for you," Liana pointed out.

"I was lucky. And the sponsors loved me. With forty-six tributes, the sponsors will be spread thin. You can't count on the same thing."

Harakuise nodded. "You don't want to end up outside a pack – not right away, at least. Eventually, it's every man for himself, but at the beginning, at least, you need allies."

"So we should wait," Zachary concluded.

"Wait?" Liana repeated.

"Yeah. Wait to see what sort of groups develop, what each pack is like, what they have as far as numbers – and then decide which to join."

Liana sighed impatiently but then nodded reluctantly. "All right. We wait."

Zach turned to Camden, who nodded. It wasn't the plan they had come up with, but it was something. And, right now, it was the best plan they had.

That was good enough for him.

* * *

**Cordelia Astier, 15  
****District Six**

"None of you deserve this."

Cordelia glanced at her fellow tributes, gathered on three couches that formed a U-shape. She sat on one end, with Paget beside her on the couch. Delvin and Alexi sat on the next couch, Nadine and Presley on the third. Nicodemus' wheelchair closed the circle, between Presley and Cordelia.

"_None _of you," Nicodemus repeated gently, glancing at Presley, then Cordelia and her brother. "You may have been told differently, but none of you deserve what's about to happen. But here we are. To be perfectly honest, you're already starting out at a disadvantage. There are six of you. There's only one of me. You're going to have to be patient with me." He glanced around. "It's easier for me to talk to all six of you at once – at least at first – but if any of you would prefer to be coached separately from the start, now's the time to say so."

Cordelia glanced at Paget, who shook his head. All around the circle, the others did the same – all except Delvin. "What about Vernon?" he asked.

Nicodemus shook his head. "Vernon hasn't mentored since his son died. The Games take their toll on mentors, too. You're welcome to ask him, of course, but I can already tell you it's a dead end."

Delvin nodded. "All right. So where do we start?"

"How about allies?" Alexi suggested.

Presley perked up at that. "Are you offering?"

"Offering?"

"An alliance," Presley said matter-of-factly. She turned to Nicodemus. "What do you think?"

Nicodemus leaned forward a little. "Allying with your district partner – or partners – does have advantages. Can anyone tell me why?"

Cordelia smiled a little. He sounded like a teacher trying to coax students into answering a question. She almost felt compelled to raise her hand before speaking. "Because then mentors don't have to choose who to help," she said quietly.

Nicodemus nodded. "That's one reason, certainly. If two or three of you are together, and I can send a gift that would help a group of people rather than just one, that's a good thing. What else?"

"It's one less thing to worry about later," Alexi offered. "If you already have allies going into training, you don't have to worry about taking time to look for them. You can just focus on training."

"Also true," Nicodemus agreed. "What's the downside?"

"The downside?" Alexi asked.

Nicodemus nodded. "Every strategy in the Games has a downside. There isn't a strategy that's right for everyone, every time. If there was, everyone would use it. So … What's the downside? What's the disadvantage of allying with your district partners."

"They die." Everyone turned towards the voice, surprised. Nadine shrugged. "Well? It's true."

"It is," Nicodemus admitted, though, from his tone, he wouldn't have put it as bluntly. "I've seen district partners become very close. When one of them dies … It can be very devastating for the other. Three years after my Games, the District Seven tributes were very close allies, despite their age difference. But the girl – Lydia – was badly injured by mutts the first night. Casper spent the next day trying to care for her, trying to save her … but he couldn't. But that's not the worst that can happen."

Presley leaned forward, intrigued, and asked the obvious question. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Nicodemus hesitated a moment, then continued. "The Games before mine … the 25th Games, the first Quarter Quell … two of District Twelve's tributes were in an alliance together. They and their allies stuck together for days, but, after their other two allies died, Brennan and Blythe parted ways. Neither wanted to be there to see the other die. But do you know what happened after that?"

"They found each other again?" Paget guessed.

"Not just 'found each other.' Their mentor drove them together, manipulated them into finding each other. Brennan knew the Gamemakers wouldn't let them simply walk away, so he killed Blythe. His district partner. His ally." He shook his head. "The worst thing about having allies isn't that they might die – It's that you might have to kill them."

"But isn't that…?" Cordelia started, but trailed off.

Nicodemus turned. "Go ahead. Isn't that what?"

"Isn't that true no matter who your allies are – whether they're your district partners or not?"

"Absolutely. And, to be perfectly honest, that's why I didn't want any allies during my Games. I didn't want to get attached – or let anyone get attached to me. That's one way to play the Game. It's not the only way. Some of the other victors had a group of allies. Some had one or two. Some didn't have any. It all depends on the person."

Cordelia nodded. That made sense. It wasn't particularly helpful, but it made sense.

"I think we should," Paget said suddenly.

Delvin cocked an eyebrow. "Should what?"

"Form an alliance. The six of us. What do you say?"

Cordelia turned, surprised. She had assumed that it would just be the two of them – her and Paget. That no one else would want to ally with them, especially not tributes from their own district. Tributes who knew who they were.

But Alexi was undeterred. "I'm in."

"Sounds good," Presley readily agreed.

Alexi turned to Nadine. "What about you?"

"I…" She hesitated a moment, but then nodded. "All right."

Alexi glanced at Cordelia, who nodded. She just hoped Paget knew what he was doing.

The five of them turned to Delvin, who shook his head. "No. I don't think so."

Nadine smirked. "Not good enough for you?"

Delvin shook his head. "Well, I wasn't going to put it that way, but … no. Look at you. All of you. Forming an alliance based on … what? The fact that you all want one? Some idea that he'll be able to help all of you at once? That's not how things work. That's not how the Games work. There is no 'we.' Only one person survives. One. You really think allying with each other will help that person be you?" He shook his head. "I'm going to go find the tape of the reapings." He headed for the next car.

Nicodemus nodded. "He's not wrong. You don't have to decide anything now."

"We already have," Paget insisted.

"It doesn't hurt to keep your options open. Go watch the reapings with Delvin; I'll catch up in a moment."

One by one, the other tributes left – even Paget – but Cordelia lingered by Nicodemus' side. "Your brother seemed quite eager to secure an alliance," Nicodemus observed. "I think he has a plan."

Cordelia nodded. "That's a good thing, though, right?"

Nicodemus leaned back in his wheelchair. "Depends on what that plan is."

Cordelia shook her head. Paget had a plan. And, whatever it was, he seemed pretty certain of it. Paget would never do anything that would hurt her. She would just have to trust him.

That was good enough for her.

* * *

"_I understand that you live in a world where righteousness and evil seem very far apart, but that is not the real world."_


	16. Train Rides: Who We Are

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me any alliance ideas you might have.

* * *

**Train Rides  
****Who We Are**

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

"So, who are you, kid?"

Septimus glanced over at Balthasar, who was leaning back in a big, comfy armchair. Harriet and Naella had already retreated to the next car to discuss their own strategy. Harriet, at least, had flashed a smile in his direction, but Naella hadn't even bothered to look at him. That didn't bode well for any hope of him being accepted into the Careers' alliance.

Not that Careers were the only option. For years, District Two had allied only with District One and District Four. Stable. Predictable. The strategy ensured that only trained tributes were allowed in the Career alliance. While that provided a certain sense of order, it eliminated some of the spontaneity and resourcefulness that outer-district tributes could provide.

"Well?" Balthasar cocked an eyebrow. "Just wake me up when you're ready to talk, I suppose."

"I'm Septimus Drakon. What else do you need to know?"

Balthasar shrugged. "Why those Peacekeepers were chasing you, for starters. Why you didn't seem to know that the Victors would be the ones voting to decide who went into the Games if you volunteered. Oh, and where you learned that move you pulled on Anton; the others tell me they've never seen you around the academy."

Septimus scoffed. "As if the academy is the only place to study strategy."

"Well, at least that rules out the idea of you lurking around the academy without them noticing. I feel much more confident in their security now. Unfortunately, that still doesn't tell me much about _you_."

"Why didn't you ask the Peacekeepers why they were pursuing me?"

"Because I know the answer I would have gotten. It's their job to chase people. I'm sure your side of the story is much more entertaining."

"Entertaining?"

"Yeah. You know, a good story. I'm sure you've heard some of the ones they tell about me. I poisoned the intended volunteer so that I could take his place. It was always my plan to get booted out of the Career pack. The skulls of the five tributes I killed are still locked up in my basement somewhere, along with the little children I've abducted since I made it back from the Games." He smirked. "None of it's true, of course, but it makes for a good story. So what's yours?"

"My story?"

"Your story. Don't tell me you're a rebel."

Septimus froze. "Why would you assume that?"

"Because after what happened last year, the Capitol's going to assume any volunteer who isn't a Career is a rebel until they've proven otherwise. So you'd better have a good reason."

"After what happened last year?"

"Yeah, last year. The rebels. The torture. The executions. What dungeon have you been locked up in?" When Septimus didn't respond, however, Balthasar finally caught on. "Oh. You have been, haven't you. You've got no idea what happened last year."

Septimus clenched his fists. He hated admitting that he didn't know, but the simple fact was that he didn't. "They don't exactly keep me informed of … current events."

"So I see. Well, here's the scoop. Last year, a group of rebels got it into their heads that if they volunteered, banded together, and refused to fight, the Capitol would have to stop the Games. It didn't go so well for them – or their families. Wasn't that big a deal here in District Two, but you can see why the Capitol would be suspicious of … unorthodox volunteers."

"I'm not a rebel."

"Good to hear."

"My mother was."

"Less good."

"She was a Capitolite."

"Intriguing. _Was_?"

"Executed seventeen years ago."

"Better. Sorry."

"Don't be. I was only a year old; I don't remember her."

"And your father?"

"Still in the Capitol."

"What's his name?"

"Doesn't matter. I don't want anything to do with him."

"You do if he has money. He might sponsor you."

"He disowned me."

"Blood is blood."

"Blood didn't matter to him seventeen years ago. He left me in District Two to be raised as a prisoner. Why would he sponsor me now?"

"Because you're a strong contender with a compelling story. And there's nothing Capitolites love more than a compelling story. Where'd you get your training?"

"Quentin Markus."

"Any relation to former Head Peacekeeper Markus?"

"His nephew. They both fought in the rebellion."

"On the Capitol's side, I presume."

"Obviously."

Balthasar nodded. "Military training, then. Military history. Military tactics. Are you any good?"

"Very good. You saw me at the reaping."

"I saw you attack an unprepared opponent." He stood up. "Let's see what you've got."

"Now?"

"Why not?"

"It's against the rules." Was it? It was against the rules for tributes to fight each other before the Games. He'd never thought to ask if the same rule applied to mentors.

Balthasar shrugged. "It's not against the rules for me to attack _you_." He swung.

Septimus dodged. Once. Twice. The third time, he caught Balthasar's fist in his hand. Balthasar twisted away, but not quickly enough to block the blow that caught him on the chin. A second punch knocked him back into his chair. Septimus stepped back, satisfied, but Balthasar was grinning. "Not bad, kid. But what'd you forget?"

"Nothing."

Balthasar sprang to his feet and flung a knife at Septimus' feet. Septimus dodged, then stepped back, startled. Where had Balthasar been keeping it?

"Tucked it between the cushions before you got here, in case you _did _turn out to be a rebel," Balthasar said matter-of-factly. "Glad you're not. You might have a shot at this."

"Might?"

"Yeah. 'Maybe' is all any of us have to go on in the Games. Better to learn that now."

"I beat you."

"You beat an opponent who's been out of practice for ten years. And you knocked me back into an armchair. Don't do that in the arena."

"There won't be armchairs in the arena."

"You've got no idea what'll be in the arena. My arena was a giant town, built for people ten times my size. The tributes were like mice scurrying around, using oversized pins and needles as weapons. And you can bet they'll cook up something even crazier this year. You have to be ready for anything."

Septimus hesitated a moment. Finally, he nodded. "Thank you. I will be." And he would. No matter what the Capitol had in store, no matter what the other tributes were planning, he would be one step ahead. He had to be.

He would be ready.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

"Who are you hiding from?"

Elizabet sat up on her bed, surprised to see Glenn in the doorway. The first thing their escort had suggested was a change of clothes, so she had traded her reaping clothes for a fuzzy blue shirt, dark grey sweatpants, and soft blue slippers she had found in the closet. They were warm. Comfortable. And the bed was so soft. It had just seemed easier to stay in her room, to try to forget what was happening – if only for a moment.

"I'm not hiding." But her voice sounded timid, even to her. "I'm just … not ready yet."

Glenn sank into a chair nearby. "You and me both."

Elizabet couldn't hide her surprise. "But you – you've been mentoring for … what? Thirty years?"

"Thirty-eight, counting this one," Glenn nodded. "It seems longer, sometimes. And then sometimes … sometimes it seems like yesterday that I was sitting here, a tribute, on a train just like this one, doing exactly what you're doing now – wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere but here. Anything but this." He smiled a little. "I was your age, you know."

"You were?"

"Sure was. Fifteen years old. Pudgy. Quiet. Nervous. Scared out of my wits. And my mentor was … not the most helpful. My district partner was older. Stronger. Faster. The two of them ignored me." He smiled a little. "Everyone ignored me."

"Seems to have worked out all right," Elizabet pointed out.

"In the end, it did," Glenn agreed. "The other tributes ignored me during the bloodbath. The Gamemakers ignored me until it was too late. I hid my way to a victory everyone was convinced I didn't deserve." He leaned forward a little. "But that won't work for you. Not anymore. With so many extra tributes, it may seem easier to hide at first. Easier to fade into the background. But, mark my words, no one's going to just forget about you. Sooner or later, you have to step out of this room."

Elizabeth nodded. "I know. I'm just…"

"Not ready," Glenn finished. "That's fine. When you are, though, we're in the next car. Eating supper. I'll bring you some later if—"

"I'll be there," Elizabet promised. "I just need a moment."

"Fair enough," Glenn agreed, then got up slowly and made his way out of the room.

Elizabet lay down again, tears starting to well in her eyes. He was right, of course. She couldn't stay here forever. But if she went out there…

She was hungry, though. She'd eaten earlier, before the reaping, but that seemed like ages ago. A lifetime ago. And it hadn't been much. They never had much. She'd heard people talk about Capitol food…

Finally, Elizabet forced herself to her feet, then out the door. One step after another, towards the inviting aromas coming from the next car. She opened the door to find the others already eating. The six of them were seated around a large table, piled high with more food than she'd ever seen in her life.

All hesitation forgotten, Elizabet took the empty seat between Calantha and Glenn and immediately started filling her plate. "This is all for us?"

"Sure is," Glenn agreed with a smile. "And if there's anything you want more of, just let me know."

More? Elizabet shook her head. She couldn't imagine ever wanting more food than this. For a long while, the four tributes and even the three mentors were content to stuff their faces, and to forget – if only for a little while – why they were all there.

Eventually, though, none of them could eat any more – except Glenn, who had somehow saved room for dessert and was serving himself a generous portion of cake. Finally, Indira broke the silence. "So … Where do we start?"

"Maybe we should watch the other reapings first," Beckett suggested. "Find out exactly how many other tributes there are, which districts have extras – that sort of thing."

Glenn nodded. "Sounds reasonable." Together, they headed for the other side of the train car, to a ring of chairs and couches that circled a screen. Indira and Beckett settled onto one couch, while Calantha claimed one of the chairs. Presley and Tess chose a second couch. Elizabet silently chose a place on the third couch, and Glenn plopped down next to her with a plate of cake and cookies. "They'll calm your nerves."

They didn't. But she took a cookie, anyway, and munched silently as the reapings began to play. District after district. Name after name. Face after face. So many tributes – more than she'd expected, somehow. There had been twice as many from District Ten, so maybe she should have expected it, but she hadn't realized just how _many _that would be.

Districts One and Two passed by as normal – all volunteers. Careers – older, stronger, better prepared. District Three had two extras – a boy who seemed as confused as she had been when they began calling extra names, and another who knelt down to comfort Avery, last year's Victor, and ask her to be his mentor.

District Four brought not two volunteers, but six. Elizabet shook her head. Six tributes only a few years older than her, ready and willing – eager, even – to risk their lives in the Games. District Five had two volunteers of its own for the third year in a row. That made twelve. Twelve Careers.

Too many. Far too many.

District Six had six tributes, one after another after another. A boy and girl who seemed to be twins, followed by a little girl in handcuffs. District Seven had four – three girls and a boy. Six from District Eight, including a volunteer – a boy her age who raced to the stage after his brother's name was called.

District Nine had two extra girls. Then District Ten. Calantha's name was called, then Beckett. Then her. Then Indira. Two extra girls. Two girls who shouldn't be here.

District Eleven had a fourteen-year-old girl, a thirteen-year-old boy, and then a twelve-year-old boy – and, last of all, a volunteer. District Twelve had only two tributes. Elizabet felt Glenn's arm slide comfortingly around her shoulders as she finished the last of her cookie. Only two from Twelve. Only two. Their tributes hadn't rebelled. They had been obedient.

If District Ten had done the same…

She wouldn't be here. Indira wouldn't be here. But that didn't matter. They were here. There was no running now. No hiding.

There was no escaping this.

"Forty-six," Calantha said as the tape turned off.

Elizabet nodded. She hadn't been counting, but that sounded about right. Forty-six. Nearly double the usual number.

"Twelve Careers," Indira offered. "That's not good."

"None of it's good," Beckett pointed out. "But maybe there's some way we can use that. Twelve is a lot for one pack; they'll have to split up. If they're focused on each other…"

Elizabet tuned out as the other three kept talking. Glenn drew her close, his arms wrapped around her. "It's okay," he said quietly. "There'll be time to talk strategy later. Get some sleep."

Elizabet opened her mouth to argue. To say that she wasn't tired. But she was. She was tired, and scared, and she wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to think about the Games. Not yet.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they could talk about strategy. Tomorrow, she would be focused. Tomorrow, maybe, she could forget how scared she was.

Tomorrow, she would be ready.

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

"Who are you?"

Eleanor glanced up from the couch where she and Barry sat together. Barry was drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch – impatient or nervous, Eleanor wasn't sure. "What?"

Brennan leaned forward a little in his chair. "Who are you? That's the first thing my own mentor asked me. The first thing he taught me. Whoever you used to be – the mayor's kid, the class clown, the loud one, the quiet one, the smart one, the athletic one – you have to leave it all behind. Whoever you were – that person gets left behind somewhere. Maybe that person is still back there in District Twelve. Maybe you'll leave them somewhere in the chariots, or in the Capitol. Sooner or later, you'll become someone else. Someone new.

"And that can be good or bad. _You _get to decide who that person is. Who you want to be in the Games. What have you always wanted to be? Who would you be, if you didn't have people telling you that you couldn't?"

"Free," Eleanor answered without hesitation.

Brennan smiled a little. "Good. Free from what?"

_My father_, she almost said. But that was a given. She had been free from him – from her life back in District Twelve – the moment her name had been called at the reaping. "Rules," she decided after a moment. "Being told what to do, when to do it, when to go, when to stay. I want to … to be able to make a choice, because it's what I want, not because it's what someone else says is best."

Brennan nodded. "That's good. The audience loves free-spirited tributes. But you need to be careful with that – make sure you don't come across as rebellious. Especially after last year."

Eleanor hesitated. "I hadn't thought of that."

"That's what I'm here for. Just make sure those 'choices' you want don't turn out to be anti-Capitol. For example, you don't get to choose not to fight. But you do get to choose _when _to fight. Or _who _to fight. Frame it like that, and you'll be fine." He turned to Barry. "What about you?"

"What if … What if I don't want to change? What if I like myself the way I am?"

Brennan smiled sadly. "Not an option, I'm afraid. The Games change everyone."

"You came out okay," Barry pointed out.

Eleanor nodded. As Victors went, Brennan didn't have it too bad. He had a shop. He was helping the district. He seemed pretty happy. And he seemed _very _normal.

Brennan thought for a moment before answering. "It's been seventeen years since my Games. Sometimes it seems longer. Sometimes it seems more like seventy. There are times when it seems like all those horrible things happened to someone else, somewhere very far away or long ago. Like it's all just a nightmare, or a story.

"But then something will happen, something that brings back the memories like they were yesterday. I'll remember my first kill – a girl from District Seven. She didn't do anything to me. She had food; we didn't. I'll remember her guts spilling. The smell of blood. So much blood. Hers. A girl from Nine. My own district partner. A little boy from Three – only twelve years old. And Mercury … the girl from Five."

"The girl you faced in the finale?" Barry asked.

Brennan nodded. "We were both lying on the floor. Weaponless. Choking the life out of each other. It's been seventeen years, and I can still remember how it felt – trying desperately to breathe, to hold on … just a little longer than she could."

"And you did."

"I did," Brennan agreed. "But it's things like that, Barry … things that you never forget." Carefully, he slipped the glove off his right hand, revealing a tightly clenched fist. "Things you never let go of."

Eleanor couldn't help staring. Brennan's injury was no secret – nerve damage, the doctors said – but, with his gloves, it was easy to forget.

"Seventeen years," Brennan said quietly. "But there are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep." He shook his head. "Those wounds, those memories … They don't have to consume you. They don't have to overwhelm you. But they _do _change you. I'm not the same boy who entered the Games. That boy would never have made it out. I changed. So will you. But _you _get to decide whether that change will destroy you … or make you stronger." He pulled his glove back on. "So what'll it be, Barry. Who do you want to be?"

"I want … I want to win. But everyone does."

Brennan held up his hand. "Doesn't matter if everyone else wants it, too. You want to win. What's it going to take to win?"

Barry hesitated. "I'll have to fight. So … I want to be a fighter?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"An answer."

"Good. Because that's what you'll have to do – both of you. And not just for yourselves. For your families, too. The tributes last year – Lyta and Miles – they fought, even though they knew they would probably die. And, because of what they did last year, District Twelve was spared."

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. "Spared?"

Brennan nodded. "Come with me. There's something I need to show you."

Twelve reapings later, she understood. "This changes everything," Eleanor said quietly.

Brennan shook his head. "This changes nothing. There were extra tributes the year I won, too. You go into the Games, you fight, you kill, you survive. Tributes die. One lives. It's the same."

"But the odds—" Barry protested.

"It's never about the odds. It's never _been _about the odds. Do you really think a kid from District Twelve would have won the first Quarter Quell if it were all up to the numbers? The Games are about a lot of things. They're about determination. They're about knowing when to fight and when not to fight. When to trust your allies and when to go it alone. They're about sponsors and the Gamemakers and paying attention to the arena and to the other tributes – but they are _not _about the odds."

Barry opened his mouth to argue, but apparently thought better of it. Eleanor nodded. "So what do we do?"

Brennan smiled a little. "_We_. I like that. Good to hear it so soon. Lyta and Miles worked well as a pair last year, and I think you will, too. The first thing we're going to do is watch those reapings again. No, don't argue. This time, don't just stare. Don't just count. Keep an eye out for threats – aside from the obvious. Careers are always a threat. Who else do you need to watch? Watch for potential allies, too. People who will be useful, but also people you can trust … for a while, at least."

Eleanor swallowed hard. _For a while_. Barry was nice enough, but how long could she trust him? How long before he turned on her, just like Brennan had turned on his own ally?

Eleanor took a deep breath. She would have to watch him. She would have to be careful. Because, as friendly as Barry seemed, sooner or later, he would be competition.

And she would have to be ready.

* * *

"_It doesn't matter who we were. It only matters who we are."_


	17. Train Rides: An Odd Thing

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me if you have any alliance ideas ... or if you have any last-minute chariot ideas before your tributes are left to my occasionally humorous and/or morbid imagination.

* * *

**Train Rides  
****An Odd Thing**

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

"You don't seem afraid at all."

Evander looked up, surprised, as Avery joined him at the table. None of his district partners had shown the least bit of interest in him – and not for lack of trying on his part. India had asked to be coached separately, and was off in another car with Miriam. Aleron was sulking in his room. Percival and Horatio were watching the other reapings for what was probably the fifth or sixth time. Evander wasn't sure where Avery had been, but, judging from how red her eyes were, she'd probably been crying somewhere.

Evander shook his head. "Trust me, I'm just as afraid as anyone else." He took another bite of cake. "There just isn't anything I can do about it right now. I thought there would be – thought that, out of the three of them, one of them, at least, would want to work with me – but I guess I'm on my own for now."

"_We're_ on our own," Avery said quietly. "And being ignored by your district partners … well, it's not the worst thing that could happen. Allying with mine didn't work out so well."

Evander cringed. She had a good point. But the last thing he wanted to do was force her to relive her own Games. "So," he ventured, hoping to change the subject. "We had dinner. Had dessert. Watched the reapings twice – Horatio's still in there watching them again. Now what?"

Avery blushed. "I … I'm not sure. This is my first year as a mentor."

Evander shrugged. "That's all right; it's my first year as a tribute."

Avery actually smiled a little. "I … I want to help you. I really do. I just don't know what I'm doing. My Games last year … Nothing went the way it was supposed to. I made all the wrong allies. Anders and I did all the wrong things during training. Our strategy in the Games was – well, you know how well it worked. I don't know any of the things a mentor's supposed to. I don't have the experience a mentor's supposed to get from their own Games. All I can tell you is what _not_ to do."

"Fair enough. So what _don't _I do?"

Avery looked away. "Don't ally with anyone who wants to stop the Games."

"Okay."

"Or anyone who seems too … idealistic."

"Idealistic," Evander repeated. "Like how?"

"Like … anyone who doesn't understand the bigger picture. Anders – and the rest of my allies – were always talking about 'we.' _We _could do this. _We _could stop the Games. _We _could force the Capitol to give in. But then they split us apart, and … and then there was no 'we.' There was just me, and I … I wanted to survive."

"Anyone would."

Avery nodded. "But I wanted it most. Or … or decided I wanted it first. They hurt us, Evander. They tortured us. They said it would continue until one of us agreed to kill the others. It was less than an hour. Less than an hour before I gave in. But what the others went through – they suffered for days before I found them. Anders last. He spoke to me, at the end – said that I had betrayed them. _You betrayed us_, he said. Even then, it was still 'us' to him. Even then." There were tears in her eyes. "There is no 'us' in the Games. There is no 'we.' And you have to find allies who understand that, or…"

Evander quickly got up and took a seat at her side, instead, wrapping his arm around her. "Okay," he said quietly. "It's okay." For a moment, they sat there, silent, as Avery slowly regained her composure. "All right," Evander said at last. "So what sort of allies _do_ I look for?"

"I … I don't know," Avery admitted.

"If you figure it out, make sure you let me know," a voice interrupted. Evander looked up in surprise to see that Miriam had joined them. "You're in good company if you don't know – both of you. District Three victors haven't exactly had great luck when it comes to allies."

"What about you?" Evander asked.

Miriam shrugged. "I didn't have any. No one wanted me – I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old orphan. No one thought I would be useful."

"And Percival?" He'd only been five years old when Percival had won. And the only thing that was common knowledge was that he had ended up lurking in the basement of the opera house, hanging the bodies of his victims in the doorway. Not exactly the sort of tribute he would have wanted as an ally.

Miriam smiled a little. "Believe it or not, he had allies. Five of them, in fact. All younger, outer-district tributes. The ones everyone else had rejected."

Evander leaned forward a little. "What happened to them?"

"The bloodbath happened. Three of them were killed, and Percival was separated from the other two. He struck out on his own, and, by the time he found one of them again, they were the only two left. He had no choice but to kill her."

Avery shook her head. "And you know what happened to my allies. Maybe some of us are just better off alone."

"That's what India already decided," Miriam nodded. "And Horatio, too, apparently – I checked in with Percival before coming to find you. And maybe they're right. With so many tributes this year, it would be easy for a lone tribute to escape the others' attention – at least for a while."

Evander shook his head. "I … I do want allies, though. I don't want to be in the Games alone."

Miriam took a seat beside him. "I understand. Believe me, I do. But, Evander … that's the wrong reason to want allies. Sooner or later, everyone's alone in the Games. It's just a matter of whether you're alone when you're still alive, or whether you're already dead."

Evander looked away. She wasn't saying anything he hadn't already tried to tell himself. But hearing it from her made it more real, somehow. "So … What's the right reason to want allies?"

"Mutual benefit. You want allies who can help you survive – not just someone who's good company. Tributes who have some useful skill. Tributes who will make your look stronger than you are; sometimes, other tributes are less likely to attack a group of you."

"Sometimes."

Miriam nodded. "It works the other way, too. If your group looks _too_ strong, other groups – especially the Careers – might see you as a bigger threat and decide to deal with you first. It's a balance; everything in the Games is. You want to look strong enough to be interesting to the audience, but not strong enough to be a target. Does that make sense?"

_Not really, _Evander wanted to say. It made sense in theory. But, after watching the reapings twice, he still had no idea which of the others would make him look strong, but not too strong.

But there would be time for that. Time to get to know them – some of them, at least. He needed to be patient – just a little longer. He glanced at Avery, who nodded a little.

It was a start.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

"They don't seem afraid."

Domingo shook his head as the six of them watched the reapings. Well, the five of them, at least; Fallon didn't seem to be paying much attention. And Casper and Hazel seemed content to let her pace back and forth, fidgeting. But Domingo was watching every district – and they all seemed less afraid than he was.

But especially the Careers. District One. District Two. District Four. District Five. All volunteers. All strong, prepared, brave. Eager. Fearless.

"Only the ones who don't understand what's really about to happen," Hazel said quietly. "Everyone else – everyone who knows what's coming – they're afraid. Even if they don't show it – because they've been told not to, because they want to look strong, because that's what they think the Capitol wants to see – even then, they're still afraid."

Audra cocked an eyebrow. "Even the Careers?"

Casper smiled a little. "_Especially _the Careers."

Domingo scoffed. "If I had as much training as them, I certainly wouldn't be afraid."

Casper shook his head. "Don't be so sure. They're better trained, sure, but that also means there's more pressure. I was eighteen when I went into the Games. The same age as most Careers. But there was a big difference. If _I _had died in the Games, it would have been a tragedy, certainly, for my family. For the people who knew me. It would have been a waste – a waste of the time I would have had.

"But when a Career dies in the Games, it's not just their future that's been wasted. It's a good portion of their past, as well. Those eighteen years I had before the Games – they were mine, and that was something the Games couldn't take away. Careers start training at such a young age. Ten, eleven, twelve. Some even younger. All those years - all hanging in the balance. They either mean everything or nothing; there is no in between. Either all those years, all that training, was worth it, or … or it wasn't."

"It wasn't worth it – either way." Ciere leaned back in her chair. "Even if they win – What do they really get out of it? A lifetime of looking back and remembering how they killed other kids. Remembering that they _volunteered _to kill other kids. What could be worse than that?"

Hazel shook her head. "You might be surprised. After my Games, I spent a lot of years wondering why I had survived. Why was _I _the one who lived, when there were so many others who deserved it more? My district partner, who was older and stronger. The boy I faced in the finale – the boy who would have won, if not for the Gamemakers' interference. Why did _I_ make it out alive?"

Ciere cocked an eyebrow. "And now?"

"There are still days when I wonder," Hazel admitted. "But there are fewer and fewer of those days. Whether I like it or not – whether I _deserve _it or not – I'm the one who's here. I'm the one who lived."

Domingo shook his head. "Yeah, but you only killed one person – that boy at the end. And the mutts had already almost killed him. You just finished him off. Does that even count?"

Hazel looked away. "It does to me. Death is death. He was injured, yes, but I killed him. And I have to live with that."

"She's right," Casper agreed. "Death is death. I was in the same position she was – on the second day of the Games. My ally … my friend … Lydia had been injured by mutts the night before. She was dying. I could have killed her. Could have made it quick. Painless. But I didn't. There was a difference between watching her die and killing her myself – a difference I couldn't accept. I watched her die. I held her. I comforted her. But I didn't kill her."

"You killed three other tributes, though," Audra pointed out.

Casper nodded. "I did. That's how the Games work – kill or be killed. And there are some tributes – even some Victors – who can't get over that. There are some Victors who will spend every moment they have left regretting what they've done. But Hazel's right; that's no way to live. It _is _possible to move on."

Domingo shrugged. "But even you didn't do anything that terrible."

Casper cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

Domingo hesitated. What _did_ he mean? Casper had killed three people. Wasn't that terrible enough? "You didn't enjoy it," he decided at last. "You did it because you had to – not because you wanted to. You didn't want to be in the Games. You were there, and you killed because of what you just said – kill or be killed. What the Careers do – it's different."

Casper leaned back in his chair. "How?"

"Because they _want _it!" Wasn't that enough of a difference? "They spend their whole lives learning how to kill people!"

"They do," Casper agreed. "And, believe me, I used to have the same opinion of them as you do. The last tribute I faced was a Career. The boy from Two. And, of the tributes I killed, I always felt the least sorry about his death. Still do, I suppose. _He volunteered for this_, I would tell myself. _He knew he might die. And he wanted to be here, anyway_. For the longest time, I couldn't understand how anyone could _want _that."

"What changed?" Audra asked.

"I became a mentor. I met some of the Career Victors during the next few years. Got to know them. And some of them … Some of them are exactly what you'd expect. Remorseless. Driven. But what surprised me the most was that they didn't seem … bloodthirsty. For most of them, the Games weren't about the chance to kill other people. It was more of a chance to prove _themselves_. And the more I began to understand them, the more I began to pity them."

"Pity them?" Domingo could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you insane? You want us to pity the Careers? They're the enemy!"

"Everyone's the enemy in the Games," Casper said slowly. "Everyone and no one. And, no, I don't expect you to pity them. I don't expect you to pity anyone. Pity has a tendency to get people killed in the Games. But everyone in that arena – _everyone _– is still human. They're children – just like you are. Just like I was. And _no one _deserves to be in the Games … even the ones who think they want it."

Domingo shook his head. This was all well and good for Casper and Hazel. They were safe now. They could afford to pity anyone they wanted. They could afford to see even the most ruthless and bloodthirsty tributes as little children. But he couldn't. He couldn't afford that – not when he might have to kill them.

He might have to kill them. Domingo clenched his fists, surprised that was the first thought that had come to his mind. Not that they might kill him – but that _he _might have to kill _them_. The thought scared him – but not as much as the thought of dying.

And that was a good start.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

"It's okay to be afraid."

Sariya glanced up at Eloise, surprised. After dinner, Crispin, Myrah, and Melody had headed for the next car. Now Sariya was beginning to wonder if she should have joined them. "Afraid," she repeated. "You _want _us to be afraid?"

Eloise shook her head. "_Want _you to? No. Never. I want you both to be safe at home in District Nine, with your families, without any danger at all. But what I want isn't important. And I'm sure you _are_ afraid."

Sariya's gaze strayed to Thane, who was watching her, as well. Neither of them was about to admit it to each other, but he was probably just as afraid as she was. Part of him hoped he was, at least. Hoped she wasn't the only one in the room who was scared.

"If you don't want to admit it yet, that's fine," Eloise shrugged. "It's still early. But things actually get easier once you're willing to admit you're afraid. I know you're always told the opposite. Don't show fear. Don't cry. Be strong. Act like you're not afraid." She leaned forward a little. "Would you like to know why you shouldn't?"

Thane cocked an eyebrow, but he took the bait. "Why?"

"Everyone always says the audience wants to see tributes who aren't afraid. That's not exactly true. Oh, they may seem to have more of a chance early on. They seem stronger. But, once you're actually in the Games, what the Capitol really wants to see is tributes who _are _afraid. Tributes who can overcome that fear and learn to fight, anyway. Tributes who can learn to _use _that fear. Tributes who are human. _That's _what the Capitol wants to see."

Sariya nodded. That made sense. But it didn't really make things any easier at the moment. Thane seemed to be on the same page. "So what do we do _now_?" he asked.

Eloise smiled a little. "Now we talk. The more I know about you, the more I can help you. Before we start, though – Do you want to be coached together?"

Sariya hesitated, but Thane simply shrugged. "Why not?"

He had a point, of course. Why not? Being coached together didn't make them allies or anything – just normal district partners. If they split up, it would mean less time for each of them. Less advice. And one less person to bounce ideas off of. Sariya nodded. "Yeah. Why not?"

"All right, then," Eloise nodded. "Tell me a little about yourselves."

Sariya glanced at Thane. Then back at Eloise. What was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to go first? Thane certainly didn't look like he wanted to. "I…" she started, but the words caught in her throat. She didn't want to say that. Didn't want to tell them about her father. But what else about her was interesting?

_So lie._

A useful lie. Something that would make her seem strong. "Our family works in the fields – harvesting crops. I'm out there almost every day after school, so … I guess there's not really much else to know."

For a moment, there was silence. Tension. Thane looked her over curiously. Was he going to call her bluff? Say he'd never seen her in the fields? Instead, he simply shook his head. "Me, too. Just working in the fields – nothing special. Except ... I was in a fight once – about four years ago. Nearly killed a guy when he and his friends tried to jump my friend and me one night."

Sariya couldn't help staring a little. Was he serious? No. No, he couldn't be. But, watching him now, she could almost believe it. His gaze was stern, hard, cold. Everything she'd wanted to appear.

She had to do better.

"My friends and I got into a fight with some Peacekeepers once," she blurted out. "There were three of us and five of them. We barely got away."

Thane cocked an eyebrow. "What were you fighting over?"

"They said we weren't working fast enough. One of them knocked my friend to the ground and started whipping her. The other two of us fought back."

"With what?"

"We had sickles. They're a good weapon, in a pinch."

Thane nodded, smiling a little. Was he impressed? "We might have been able to kill them, but they called for reinforcements," Sariya offered. "So we started to run."

"You outran five Peacekeepers?"

Sariya shrugged. "Well, we'd already hurt a couple of them. And we knew the fields better than they did. We zigzagged a bit, lost them, and then went home."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Thane smirked a little. "Wish I'd had a sickle when Kayla and I were attacked. Probably would've been able to kill those creeps instead of just beating them bloody."

"You didn't have any weapons?"

Thane shook his head. "Just my bare hands."

"How many of them were there?"

"Five. Against two of us."

"Five?" Sariya asked, trying not to sound too surprised. Five? There was no way he was telling the truth.

"Five," Thane repeated. "One of them had a broken glass bottle. He cut me here." Thane pulled back his sleeve, revealing a scar.

So it was true. Part of it, at least. "Were you afraid?"

Thane nodded a bit. "I guess. I could have just run away, but … I couldn't leave my friend."

"Me, neither." She hesitated. "I was afraid, too. And … I guess I'm a little afraid now. I mean, this is a bit different than fighting back in the district."

Thane nodded. "Only one person can live. But that doesn't mean we couldn't help each other … for a while, at least."

"Like … allies, you mean?"

"Why not? A girl who took on a group of five Peacekeepers and lived to tell about it? Sounds like the sort of person I'd want as an ally."

Sariya smiled a little. "And a guy who took on five people who tried to hurt his friend – That sounds like a valuable ally to me."

Thane finally smiled a little. "I guess it does. So what do you say?" He held out his hand.

Sariya swallowed hard. The two people they had described sounded like perfect allies. But everything she'd said had been a lie. And what he'd said … Could she trust someone like that? Was what he had said even true?

But if she didn't accept, what would he think? Would he doubt her story? Would he decide that, if she wasn't an ally, then she was a threat? After a moment, Sariya shook Thane's hand. "Allies?"

Thane nodded. "Allies."

For a moment, there was silence. Sariya glanced at Eloise, who was watching them silently. Nodding. Did she know? Did she realize that Sariya's story was all a lie? Did she know how much – if any – of Thane's was true?

But Eloise said nothing. Instead, she simply nodded.

"Not a bad start."

* * *

"_Fear's sort of an odd thing."_


	18. Train Rides: Two Choices

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Now that we've made it through the train rides, just a friendly reminder to vote in the "favorite tribute" poll on my profile if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

Also, I'm starting to finalize my alliance plans, so if you have some input you haven't given me yet, PM me soon. Not a lot is set in stone yet, but it's getting there.

* * *

**Train Rides  
****Two Choices**

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18  
****District Four**

"Looks like we have a choice."

Jarlan nodded as the tape of the reapings finished. Mags was right – they had a choice. Several choices, in fact. The ten of them – six tributes and four mentors – sat in a rough semicircle around the screen, waiting for someone to start the discussion they all knew was coming.

"Ten Careers," Kendall observed.

"Nine," Auster corrected. "Boy from Two's not a Career."

"Might be," Imalia shrugged. "Just because he wasn't the volunteer who was picked—"

"The mentors didn't know who he was," Auster shrugged. "Not a Career."

Jarlan shook his head. "We shouldn't discount him. Or the tributes from Five. Camden's been training them."

"Alone, with a little help from Harakuise," Naomi pointed out. "They're not ready. District Five will get there, I'm sure, but they're not a Career district yet."

Mavina shrugged. "Maybe not, but—"

"But nothing!" Kendall snapped. "There are enough Careers this year without including them, too. They'd slow us down."

Jarlan shook his head. "There aren't 'enough' Careers this year. There are too many. Too many for one pack." It had been obvious from the start – from the reaping, even – that this was no normal year. He'd known it the moment he'd volunteered. But seeing the other tributes had finally made it real. "There are six of us. Maybe that's all we need. We could form our own pack – just as strong as any pack the others could put together."

Auster shook his head. "We could. But I don't think we should. If we form our own pack, set ourselves up against One and Two, we're as good as telling them that we see them as the enemy. After what happened last year, the Capitol will already be suspicious – think that maybe we mean to rebel. We should stick with One and Two; it'll prove our loyalty."

"Playing the Games should be enough to prove our loyalty," Imalia pointed out. "The tributes last year didn't want to fight. As soon as we prove we're willing to fight, to kill, then the Capitol will know we're not rebels. That should be enough."

"_Should _be," Kendall repeated. "That doesn't mean it will be. We can't take that chance. Auster is right; we should stick with One and Two."

"You really think they'll take all of us?" Brevin asked.

"No," Auster admitted. "They'll take the best. For example, the ones who were chosen to volunteer in the first place."

"Or the ones who _should _have been chosen," Kendall added with a pointed look at Mavina.

"They'll probably watch us during training, choose which of us to ask into their pack based on our skills," Auster reasoned.

Brevin shrugged. "Sounds fair. I'll take my chances with that."

"I won't," Jarlan said firmly. "We don't have to prove anything to them. We all volunteered, fair and square. We have as much right to form a pack as they do."

"Sure, you have the _right_ to form your own pack," Kendall scoffed. "It just won't be as good."

"We'll see." Jarlan turned to Imalia. "What do you say?"

Imalia blinked, perhaps a little surprised he would ask her first. But she'd been silently nodding along, backing up everything he'd said. Given the chance to voice her opinion, he had a pretty good inkling of how she'd vote.

"I'm with Jarlan," she said at last. "If we let One and Two decide who to take and who to leave, they'll split us apart – set us against each other. We should stick together – as many of us as possible."

Kendall shook her head. "Count me out."

"Me, too," Auster agreed.

Imalia turned to Mavina. "What about you?"

"I…" She glanced at Kendall, then at Jarlan, who smiled a little. That was enough. "I think we should stick together. I'm with you and Jarlan."

Jarlan nodded. That was three. Four would be better. "Brevin?"

Brevin hesitated. Thought it over. "Kendall and Auster are right," he decided at last. "Our best chance is with the other Careers."

Three and three, then. Not bad. Brevin turned to Mags. "Should we…?"

Mags nodded. "Yes. Kendall, Auster, Brevin, come with Naomi and me. Jarlan, Imalia, Mavina, stay here with Bierce and Kalypso; I'll join you in a little while."

Jarlan turned to Bierce as the other group left. "You four didn't seem to have much to say about how we split up."

Bierce nodded. "Mags thought it would be best to let you figure it out on your own, rather than having us push you into groups you wouldn't have chosen for yourselves. Not quite how I expected things to work out, but I think this is a good group." He glanced at Kalypso, who seemed less than pleased with the way things had proceeded. "You've mentored before. Any input?"

Kalypso shook her head. "This is probably the way things would have worked out, anyway. The tributes from One and Two would never have taken all six of you. Maybe it's better that you beat them to it and split off, anyway, but … The three of you just painted a target on your backs. You're well-trained, all of you; the other Careers will target you first. You're going to need a few more people if you mean to take them on."

Jarlan nodded. "I have a few thoughts about that."

Bierce nodded. "You sounded like you might. Who did you have in mind?"

"District Five. Maybe the boy from Two."

"Reasonable options."

"And a few of the outer-district tributes."

Bierce raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"There were two volunteers."

"Eight and Eleven," Imalia nodded. "They're not Careers."

"I didn't say they were. But District Eleven has a history of volunteers. And two of them have won. We shouldn't ignore him – or the other boy."

Kalypso shook her head. "The other boy is fifteen."

Bierce shrugged. "You were sixteen."

"You're taking his side?"

"I'm saying it's an option, if District Five and the boy from Two aren't interested."

"Options are good," Imalia agreed. "We shouldn't discount anyone."

_We_. That felt good. Like they were already a team. Jarlan nodded at Imalia and Mavina. "All right. We keep our options open. Wait to see what the others do. And then adjust." The other two nodded, and Jarlan leaned back a little, smiling.

They would make a good team.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

"Must've been nice to have a choice."

Ivira watched Jediah's reaction carefully. "I mean it," she continued. "You could be at home right now, with your little brother and sister, hoping for your older brother to come home, instead. But you chose to be here. That must make it a little easier, right?"

Jediah picked at his food. "I … I guess. There wasn't really much of a choice, though. Bryson is—"

"A coward for letting his little brother take his place in the Games," Ivira shrugged. Jediah's face reddened. "Well? Would you let your little brother take your place?"

"He couldn't. He's only eleven."

Ivira shrugged. "Okay, but say he wasn't. Say he was twelve, and he wanted to volunteer for you the way you volunteered for your brother. Would you let him?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. Your brother let you volunteer for your death in his place. What sort of person does that?"

Lander glared. "I couldn't help but notice that no one volunteered for _you_."

"And I wouldn't expect anyone to. Probably wouldn't let them if they tried." A lie, of course. If anyone else had offered to take her place, she certainly wouldn't have said no. But no one had. And she hadn't expected them to.

"That's very brave of you," Gadget butted in. "Accepting your fate as your own."

Lander cocked an eyebrow. "Fate, huh? You think it's fate that you got picked for a death match?"

"Yes."

"And it's fate that the others are here, too? Fate that the Capitol decided to punish us by requiring extra tributes? Fate that the rebels—"

"Yes."

Lander rolled his eyes. "I hope that makes it easier for you."

Ivira shrugged. "Would your rather she blamed the people who were truly responsible?" she asked with a pointed glance at Kit.

Not that it was his fault. Not really, and certainly not completely. But he'd had a hand in it, and if he wanted to blame himself, she certainly wasn't going to stop him. Sure enough, he ran off to the next car, leaving his dinner half-finished. Baylor took off after him.

Ivira nodded. One down. But she wouldn't have wanted Baylor as an ally, anyway. That left four of them…

Carolina turned to Gadget, probably hoping to change the subject. Smooth things over a bit. "Blaming fate – chance, luck, whatever – might help for a while. But, once you're in the Games … I don't think it'll be as much help."

Gadget crossed her arms, confused. "Why?"

Lander stepped in. "Because if it's just fate that you got reaped, then once you're in the Games, maybe it's just fate if you get stabbed, or shot, or sliced into a million pieces. Don't you want to have a say in—"

"None of us have a say," Gadget blurted out. "Neither of you won your Games because you _chose _to. You won because winning's in your nature."

Lander shook his head. "Of all the incoherent—"

"Gadget's right," Ivira interrupted. She was nothing of the sort, of course, but it got everyone's attention. "Some people are simply more likely to win the Games – and that's not a choice; it's your nature. There are predators and prey, and the predators always win."

"Well, not always," Gadget started. "There have been a few times—"

"_Almost _always, then," Ivira corrected herself. "But it's rare. But you don't strike me as prey, Gadget. You're a predator." Actually, she didn't strike Ivira as either – predator or prey. She was more of a wild card, but a useful wild card. And one Ivira wanted on her side.

"I … thank you. You … I think you're a predator, too."

_Obviously._ "Then maybe it's fate that a few of us … predators … band together."

There was an odd silence. Then Gadget nodded. "Allies?"

"Allies," Ivira confirmed. The looks on the others' faces told her she'd made the right choice. They were still thinking. Still deciding. Still wondering who they were. Gadget thought she already knew. Mentally, she wasn't a threat. Physically, she would be useful.

The perfect combination.

Adelia shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Deciding on allies so soon? Shouldn't we wait and see what other options might—"

"Lander allied with his district partner during his Games," Gadget pointed out. "Did you decide that beforehand, or after considering every other option?"

"Before," Lander admitted. "The two of us hit it off during the train rides. We never really thought about allying with—"

"See?" Gadget nodded. "It works."

"It worked _once_," Adelia pointed out. "Doesn't mean it'll work every time."

Ivira shrugged. "It's not your alliance, so why do you care?"

"I was just trying to—"

"Just trying to discourage us from allying, because you know we're stronger together?" Ivira offered. Adelia had meant well, of course. Meant to help Gadget think things through. Offer her other options. But Gadget didn't want options. She wanted fate.

And Ivira could give her that.

The other two were still watching. Jediah and Louis. Not wanting to step in. Not wanting to take a side. And Lander seemed quite relieved by that. The three of them went back to eating, trying to ignore Ivira and Gadget.

Carolina, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly happy with how things were proceeding. Not that Ivira was surprised by that. Both Lander and Carolina were quite protective of Kit. She had probably set herself back a little by going after him, but it was worth it. The two of them would come around once they realized how similar they were. Carolina and Lander understood how the Game was played. They didn't have to like it, but, sooner or later, they would realize Ivira was their best option.

But not yet. "I'm going to check on Kit," Carolina sighed, retreating.

And Adelia followed her.

Ivira cocked an eyebrow. Was Adelia worried about Kit? Trying to suck up to Carolina? Hoping to form an alliance with Baylor?

Not that it mattered right now. She had an ally. Once they got to the Capitol, she would find more. People who could help her. People she could use. Gadget was a start, but there would be more.

Soon, she would have the perfect team.

* * *

**Pan Soya, 12  
****District Eleven**

"I think this is a good choice."

Pan nodded his agreement. He wasn't as sure about the alliance as Tamsin seemed to be, but he wasn't exactly in a position to argue. "I think so, too," he agreed, making sure he was facing Philus as he spoke. That was the first thing they had worked out; it was easier for Philus to read their lips if they were facing him. Which was a bit of an annoyance, but Elani had been firm: She wanted both of them as allies.

And Pan was about to refuse the only alliance offer he was likely to get.

"Everyone will be underestimating you," Tamsin said slowly, carefully. "That can be a good thing. Keep your heads down during training. You don't want to attract too much attention – not right away."

"But attention means sponsors, right?" Elani asked.

Tamsin shook her head. "No one's going to sponsor you."

Pan let that sink in. It was true; he had known it all along. But he hadn't expected Tamsin to say it. Not so soon. Not so bluntly. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. Quietly, he brushed them away. He didn't want to look weak. He didn't want to look pitiful. But if what Tamsin said was true, it didn't matter what he did, how he looked. No one was going to sponsor them, anyway…

Tamsin leaned forward a little. "No one is going to sponsor you _yet_. Think it through. Forty-six tributes, and you're three of the youngest in the bunch. Three of the smallest. Three of the most inexperienced. There will be twelve Careers fighting for the Capitol's attention. And even for those who prefer to sponsor the outer districts, there are plenty of other choices. Be honest – who would you pick?"

"Then shouldn't we look for allies?" Elani asked. "Allies who the sponsors might notice? Maybe Shale—" she started, glancing over at the other end of the car, where Shale and Elijah sat at the table, talking.

Tamsin cut her off. "Shale doesn't want to work with you. He has more sense."

Pan bit his tongue. Was she _trying _to make them feel bad?

Elani wasn't as reserved. "If you think we're so hopeless, why don't you just go work with _him_?"

Tamsin finally smiled a little. "_There _we go. _That's _what I wanted to see." She shook her head. "You're not hopeless. None of you. In fact, if you want to know, I _chose _to work with you. I think I can help you. But, in order for that to work, you have to understand that you're starting at a disadvantage. And you can either fight that tooth and nail – or you can _use _it."

Philus scribbled a little on the pad of paper Tamsin had given him, then turned it towards the other three. _Use it __how__?_

Tamsin nodded. "The sponsors will ignore you – at least at first – but so will the other tributes. Let them. You already have each other as allies; any more would draw attention. And you don't want attention."

_You don't want attention_. It sounded strange, but it made some sense. They certainly didn't want attention from the Career pack. Or packs. Whatever it ended up being, with twelve of them.

"Keep to yourselves during training," Tamsin continued. "Stick together. Don't stand out. Stick with the survival stations; you'll just end up making fools of yourselves if you pick up a sword or a spear. Learn how to light a fire, tie a knot, make a trap. When the time comes, show the Gamemakers what you've learned. You won't get a ten, but you don't want a high score, anyway. Outer-district tributes with high scores get targeted."

"What about the bloodbath?" Pan asked. "If we're fast enough—"

Tamsin shook her head. "Don't. Even. Think about it. You find each other, and you get out of there as fast as you can. You can always find supplies later. 'Later' is your friend in the Games. Be patient. You last long enough – all of you – and the sponsors will start to notice you, even if the other tributes don't. Keep moving. Stay away from the Careers. Make whatever weapons you can. Tree branches can be sharpened with rocks. Bigger ones can be used as clubs. You can hit someone with a stone as easily as you could stab them with a knife."

"I thought you wanted us to avoid other tributes," Pan pointed out.

"I want you to avoid the _Careers_," Tamsin pointed out. "I'm not suggesting that you take on the _Careers _with a bunch of sticks and rocks. But if you find another tribute – someone you think you can handle – then you need to be ready to fight. You need to be ready to kill. If you can corner a tribute alone, you have the advantage in numbers – even if you're younger. You need to be prepared to use it."

Pan swallowed hard, glancing at the other two. Elani was nodding obediently, but Philus looked as uncomfortable as Pan felt. "You want us to start hunting other tributes."

Tamsin shook her head. "I don't _want_ you to do anything of the sort. But you _need _to, if you want to survive. Because sooner or later, hiding won't be enough. Only one person ever won the Games by just hiding, and that was almost forty years ago. That won't work this year – _especially _after what happened last year."

After what happened last year. The Games. The executions. His father. His sister. Pan clenched his fists. She was right. He couldn't let the same thing happen to his mother, to his younger siblings. He wouldn't let the Capitol kill them because of him.

So he would have to kill, instead.

Pan took a deep breath. "So we should look for tributes we think we can…" He swallowed hard, then finished the sentence. "Tributes we think we can kill."

Tamsin nodded, her face grave. "Yes. Which is the other reason I want you to keep to yourselves. The more you get to know the other tributes, the harder it will be for you to think about killing them. So during training, watch them. Keep an eye out for anyone who seems to be thinking about going it alone. You don't want to end up taking on a large group, but one tribute alone … You have a chance. Same thing during the Games. Be smart about who you decide to attack. But if you think you've found someone you can handle … Then you need to take advantage of that."

Pan nodded. So did Elani and Philus. From their expressions, they were as reluctant as he was. But, once the Games began, they would have what it took. They would have to. They needed each other.

They needed to be a team.

* * *

"_The way I see it, there's only two choices: You're either a hero, or you want to die."_


	19. Chariot Rides: Wonderful World

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "favorite tribute" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking you you think will die in the bloodbath. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want _to see die in the bloodbath. Also, this is probably a good time to note that these polls have no effect on who _will_ die in the bloodbath, aside from reassuring me that my choices are a fair combination of believable and surprising. This one will be up through the end of training, so if you want to wait a while and see how training goes before voting, that's fine.

Also, HestiaAbnegation11 is coordinating a 28-author collaboration called Dying Embers and is looking for more authors. There's a link on my profile for anyone who's interested.

* * *

**Chariot Rides  
****Wonderful World**

* * *

**Constance Juniper  
****Hunger Games Host**

The audience had no idea what was coming.

Constance shifted uneasily in her chair, waiting. Tamika had given her some warning, at least – but only a few minutes ago. She had wanted Constance's reactions to be authentic. To mirror the reactions of the rest of the Capitol.

She had a feeling that wouldn't be a problem.

The tributes already knew, of course. They were waiting, as well, carefully concealed behind the gates. Some had protested, Tamika had said. A few had fought. But, in the end, they were all ready.

She just wished she was.

* * *

**Jasper Floren  
****District One Mentor**

He knew exactly what to expect.

Jasper smiled a little as the first chariot passed the Gates. It had been only four years since his own victory; most of his old prep team was still with District One. And they didn't disappoint.

Jaime and Inviticus sported long, flowing fur robes, laced with silver and gold. A golden crown sat atop each one's head, and each of them held a long, jeweled scepter. A little old-fashioned, perhaps. Traditional. But, after what had happened last year, maybe it was best to start off with something familiar. Something that would display a little consistency. Whatever might change in the Games, District One would stay the same.

Jaime and Inviticus, as well, were determined to live up to the reputation set by a long line of District One tributes. Both were waving proudly, holding their scepters high, and even smiling a little. They were enjoying the moment. And why not?

They'd certainly earned it.

* * *

**Harriet Bard  
****District Two Mentor**

She had no idea what to expect.

Harriet tried to smile as District Two's chariot came into view. So far, everything about the tribute parade had gone as planned. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was different. That something was wrong.

Maybe it was Balthasar. Her fellow mentor had been pleasant enough so far, but she was so accustomed to Mortimer. He was overbearing, sometimes, but having him at her side had always been reassuring. Despite the way the Games changed year after year, he had been consistent. Familiar. And now he was gone.

But that didn't matter. Mortimer or no Mortimer, she had a job to do. Naella was counting on her.

As the two tributes came into view on the chariot, however, they didn't look like they were counting on anyone. Clad in plated armor, the two of them looked like they were ready to take on the rest of the tributes by themselves.

Or perhaps they simply looked ready to take on each other. Both Naella and Septimus seemed content to ignore the other, turning instead towards the crowd. No smiles. No waves. Just pure, quiet strength. Harriet nodded, relieved that everything was going as planned.

Then she saw District Three.

* * *

**Avery Bentham  
****District Three Mentor**

She wasn't going to cry.

Avery braced herself, clutching Miriam's hand tightly as District Three's chariot appeared. She had told herself she wasn't going to cry. That the audience wouldn't just be watching the tributes. They would be watching her. The most recent Victor. The newest mentor. She had to be strong if she wanted to help Evander.

But when she saw them, she couldn't be strong anymore.

India and Horatio were each dressed in a green, skin-tight outfit covered with rows of white "1"s and "0"s. Their gloves and boots were green, as well, and even their faces had been painted the same color – a green dotted with painted binary numbers to match their outfits. Which was humiliating on its own, but she'd seen worse District Three costumes.

Aleron and Evander had fared worse. Their outfits were a darker, almost sickly green. Instead of skintight leotards, the ones and zeroes had been scrawled on rags that hung loose over their bodies. They were barefoot, their skin unpainted. Their heads had been shaved bare, and around each of their necks hung an iron collar, fastened to the chariot with a length of chain.

Miriam held Avery tightly as the chariot drew closer. India and Horatio were doing their best to smile and wave – and to ignore their less fortunate district partners. As Avery watched, Aleron sank to a seat on the bottom of the chariot, hiding.

For a moment, Evander tried to persuade him to stand, but, after it became clear Aleron wasn't going to listen, Evander stood up as straight and tall as he could, waving. Finally, he found Avery's gaze and held it for a moment, even managing a smile. It wasn't much, maybe, but it was something. Almost as if he was saying, _It's okay_.

But it wasn't okay.

* * *

**Kalypso Wayland  
****District Four Mentor**

It wasn't fair.

Kalypso forced back a storm of complaints as District Four's chariot arrived. After seeing District Three, she'd had just enough time to worry that something similar might await her own tributes.

And, sure, enough, both Auster and Mavina were dressed in fairly typical District Four costumes. Mermaids, to be exact – and pretty attractive mermaids, at that. A scale-like fabric about their lower bodies gave the impression of a tail. Auster's upper body was bare, and Mavina was quite scantily clad, with only a few oversized seashells in just the right places to give her some dignity. Each of them wore a crown of colorful shells, and each held a scepter topped with an oversized pearl. Maybe their stylists had copied District One a little. But, still, not bad.

Imalia, Kendall, Brevin, and Jarlan, on the other hand, weren't so lucky. The same scaly fabric that covered Auster and Mavina's legs had been draped carelessly about their bodies, as if the four of them had simply been covered in a pile of seaweed. Like the two District Three tributes before them, the four of them stood barefoot and bare-headed, collared and chained to their chariot.

Auster was still playing his part perfectly, holding his scepter up proudly and waving at the crowd. Mavina was trying to play along, but she kept glancing at the other four, mouthing something that was probably _I'm sorry_. It wasn't her fault, of course, but Kendall seemed to think it was, and stood with her back turned to Mavina, her arms across her chest, glaring at everyone and everything.

Imalia was fidgeting, trying to shape the scaly fabric around her into something more resembling a costume than a mess of seaweed. Finally, Jarlan caught her hand and whispered something. Resigned to the terrible outfit, Imalia joined his efforts to wave at the crowd, trying to pretend they weren't totally humiliated.

Brevin, on the other hand, didn't stop fidgeting until his costume had fallen away completely, leaving him naked except for the collar around his neck. The others looked away, but he simply shrugged, waving even more enthusiastically than before. Kalypso turned to Mags. "Well, yours certainly has guts."

Mags smiled a little, unfazed. After more than thirty years of mentoring, she'd seen it all. A humiliating tribute parade certainly wasn't going to surprise her.

Kalypso just hoped it wouldn't get any worse.

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

They were certainly making their point.

Harakuise squeezed Camden's shoulder reassuringly as the fifth chariot emerged. Even he had to admit the last two districts had surprised him, but, so far, the humiliating costumes, collars, and chains had been reserved for the "replacement" tributes. The extras chosen because of last year's events. Which almost certainly meant District Five would be spared.

Still, Harakuise was relieved when his expectations were confirmed. Liana and Zachary were covered in skin-tight black clothes from the neck down. As they drew closer, however, he could see that the fabric was lined with wires – wires that, one after another, began to glow. The colors were faint, at first, but, as they drew closer and closer, they grew brighter and brighter, until the black had become a rainbow.

Liana and Zachary, for their part, were enjoying the moment – grinning and waving. As the colors grew brighter, Liana began whooping loudly, and the crowd joined in. After the last two districts, they needed something bright, something cheerful. Something good.

Because it was about to get a lot worse.

* * *

**Nicodemus Ford  
****District Six Mentor**

It had to get worse.

Nicoemus braced himself for the worst as the next chariot came into view. District Five's outfits had almost been enough to make him forget what was coming. Almost. But District Five hadn't rebelled. They had remained loyal, and they were being rewarded. Whereas District Six…

Cordelia and Paget, at least, had been spared. Each wore a scarlet flight attendant's uniform with gold trim, complete with a white scarf, red shoes, and matching red cap. Embroidered on the cap was a golden eagle, the emblem of Panem.

Presley, Nadine, Alexi, and Delvin were sitting, two on either side of the chariot, in dark blue seats that were probably meant to resemble seats aboard an airplane or a hovercraft. Each wore an outfit similar to Cordelia and Paget's, but the scarlet uniforms were disheveled and torn. The caps, set askew on their heads, couldn't hide the fact that their heads had been shaved. Like Three and Four, they were barefoot and collared, their collars firmly chained to the chariot.

Cordelia and Paget were clearly uneasy, but were doing their best to keep up appearances. They stood side by side at the back of the chariot. Paget was looking around at the crowd, Cordelia at her fellow tributes. But neither smiled. Neither waved.

Nicodemus couldn't exactly blame them.

There was no smiling and waving from the other four, either. Presley was absolutely still – so motionless, in fact, that Nicodemus was worried she might be unconscious … or worse. But, as the chariot drew closer, he could see that she had been carefully restrained. Straps bound her arms and legs in place along the seat, and the chain holding her collar was shorter than the others', restricting her movement.

Looking closer, he could see that her body was limp, her eyes unfocused. Almost as if they'd had to sedate her. Why? Had she tried to struggle?

Behind her on the left, Nadine was trying to ignore everything. Trying to find somewhere to look that wouldn't remind her of what was happening. Her gaze darted this way and that, frantically searching for something familiar, something comforting.

Finally, her gaze found Alexi's, and he smiled encouragingly. _It'll be over soon_, his look seemed to say. Behind Alexi, Delvin glared out at the crowd from his seat. 'Soon' couldn't come soon enough.

As the tributes passed, Nicodemus felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Brennan standing behind him, offering his silent support. Nicodemus silently reached up, his crooked fingers closing around Brennan's gloved hand. "Thank you."

At least he wasn't alone.

* * *

**Hazel Birnam  
****District Seven Mentor**

At least she wasn't alone.

Hazel gripped Casper's hand tightly as the seventh chariot came into view. After so many years of mentoring alone, Casper's presence was reassuring. Comforting.

But there wasn't anything he could do for the tributes.

Audra and Domingo were dressed as trees – which was typical, if a bit unoriginal. Brown, bark-patterned pants and shirt, fading into a jungle-like green at the top. Round, green headpieces circled their faces.

Fallon and Ciere wore similar outfits, but with thick coils of rope wrapped tightly around their bodies. Vines, perhaps – or maybe large jungle snakes. Hazel wasn't entirely sure which, but the ropes bound their arms tightly to their sides, making the collars and chains a bit superfluous. Their bare feet and shaved heads were both painted the same bark-like brown as their outfits.

Domingo was trying to smile. Trying to wave. But the mood in the chariot just didn't lend itself to excitement. Audra stood behind Fallon, helping the younger girl keep her balance in the restricting outfit as the chariot bounced up and down. Ciere simply stared straight ahead, ignoring them. Ignoring the boy behind her. Ignoring the crowd, the lights, the spectacle. Maybe she had the right idea.

Maybe it was better to just get through it.

* * *

**Lander Katzung  
****District Eight Mentor**

They just had to get through it.

Lander and Carolina stood protectively on either side of Kit, but Lander knew they couldn't shield him from what was coming. As District Eight's chariot came into view, he tried to prepare for the worst. District Eight had a history of horrible costumes. Pincushions. Rag dolls. Unraveling spools of thread.

But, as the tributes came into view, all Lander could see was a mess. Gadget and Baylor wore colorful patchwork outfits that would have been bad enough on their own … even if they hadn't been covered in zippers. Oversized zippers that seemed to serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever covered the outfits.

Ivira, Adelia, Louis, and Jediah wore matching outfits – if a bit more tattered and ripped. Aside from their shaved heads and collars, they didn't look all that different from their district partners. Whether that was good or bad, Lander wasn't sure; they all looked absolutely ridiculous.

But it could always be worse.

* * *

**Crispin Zephyr  
****District Nine Mentor**

It couldn't get much worse.

Crispin sighed heavily as the ninth chariot arrived. District Nine was almost always wheat. Brown wheat, golden wheat, tall wheat, short wheat. It was boring and repetitive, but at least it was reliable.

Bread was worse.

Each tribute was dressed as a slice of bread, lined up one behind each other to form a four-person loaf. It was the only way to stand; their puffy outfits spanned the length of the chariot. Sariya and Thane's loaves were white, but Myrah and Melody's were toasted, blackened quite thoroughly all around.

Burned.

Burned, just like Denice's family. Crispin glanced at Eloise, her fists clenched tightly at her side. But she said nothing. Did nothing.

There was nothing they _could _do.

Myrah stood in front, trying not to cry, trying to put on a brave face despite the ridiculous outfit. Despite the fact that she stood chained like a criminal, her head shaved, her feet bare, dressed like a giant piece of burned toast. Melody was doing a slightly better job of keeping her expression emotionless. Neutral. Just waiting, waiting for this to be over.

Behind her stood Sariya, and then Thane, both trying to preserve a little of their dignity as the crowd laughed. No waving. No smiling. Just patience. They just had to put up with it.

Just a little longer.

* * *

**Tess Wilder  
****District Ten Mentor**

Just a little longer.

Tess squeezed Presley's hand tightly. Just three more districts. Three more. They could do this. _She _could do this.

It was her first time mentoring – _really _mentoring. Without anyone to take care of her back in District Ten, Glenn had brought Tess to the Capitol with him for nineteen years. But most of it was a blur. A blur she had no desire to piece together.

She had a feeling she'd want to forget this year's chariot rides, too.

Sure enough, as District Ten's chariot rolled into view, bursts of laughter erupted from the crowd. Calantha and Beckett stood on either side of the chariot, dressed as butchers – white hats, white aprons spattered with red, and plastic cleavers in their hands. Between them stood Elizabet and Indira, shaven and barefoot, collared and chained, with puffy costumes that resembled huge slabs of meat, dripping with a red liquid meant to resemble blood.

For a moment, the tributes simply stood there, taking it in. Then Indira whispered something to Beckett. He whispered something back, and she nodded. Beckett swung his plastic cleaver at her meaty costume. He hadn't hit her hard – even from where she stood, Tess could tell that – but Indira let out a squeal, a halfway decent impression of an animal being butchered.

The crowd loved it.

Beckett swung again, and Indira squealed louder. Elizabet nodded to Calantha, who joined in, swinging her plastic cleaver into the stupid costume. Tess nodded as the four of them earned more laughter and eventually applause from the audience. Not bad.

Not great, but not bad.

* * *

**Elijah Whitaker  
****District Eleven Mentor**

The first thing he saw was the barrels.

Two large barrels stood at the front end of the chariot, which was decorated with vines. Elani and Philus stood behind the barrels, dressed as grape pickers in a vineyard, clothed in aprons, gloves, and grape-shaped purple caps. It was a bit silly, but they seemed to be having fun.

The grapes themselves were a different story.

Pan and Shale were standing in the barrels, each dressed as a giant purple grape. The collars and chains that bound them to the chariot had been painted like vines, and a collection of smaller, ball-sized, green and purple grapes filled the barrels.

Shale was tolerating the whole ordeal, arms crossed across his grape costume, but still standing as tall as he could. Pan, on the other hand, seemed to be sinking lower and lower into the barrel, as if he was trying to hide.

Just as he was about to disappear completely below the surface of grapes, Philus tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. As Elijah watched, the older boy pointed to Pan, the barrel, and then himself. When that failed to communicate his point, he pointed to Pan, then to a spot outside the barrel.

Pan climbed out. Philus climbed in. Elani grinned, turning to Shale, and said something Elijah couldn't hear. Shale stared at her for a moment, unsure, but then climbed carefully out of his barrel. Immediately, Elani climbed in, picked up one of the oversized grapes, and tossed it to Pan.

Shale stepped back as Pan tossed the grape back to Elani. Quickly, Philus joined in, and, soon, the three younger tributes were pelting each other with grapes. Shale watched, silent, but Elijah thought – if only for a moment – that he saw the older tribute smile.

The smile was gone just as quickly, but, after a moment, Shale leaned forward and whispered something to Elani. Grinning, Elani hurled the grape in the direction of the crowd. Then another. Philus and Pan joined in. A few of the grapes made it to the audience, but most fell short, filling the street with oversized fake fruit. One landed in District Ten's chariot, where Indira pretended to take a bite out of it before hurling it back at the younger tributes.

Elijah couldn't help smiling a little. This certainly wasn't what the stylists had intended, but at least the crowd was enjoying it. And the younger tributes seemed to be enjoying the moment, as well.

If only it could last.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****District Twelve Mentor**

He'd never thought he would be happy to see coal miner outfits.

Brennan breathed a sigh of relief as the tribute parade ended the same way it had begun: with something familiar. There was nothing particularly spectacular about Eleanor and Barry's outfits. Loose-fitting black shirt and trousers, black boots, black gloves, a hard hat with a light, and a plastic pickax for good measure. It was nothing impressive.

But at least they weren't coal.

And there were no chains. No collars. Both Barry and Eleanor marched up and down the chariot as much as they could, swinging their pickaxes at imaginary walls of rock. Brennan nodded a little. It was nothing amazing, but at least they had some energy.

And at least something had gone as expected.

* * *

**Tamika Ward  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Was that your idea?"

Tamika nearly jumped as President Grisom entered the room. "Sir, I can explain. I thought—"

The president held up a hand. "I didn't ask for an explanation. You don't need to justify yourself to me. I just asked if it was your idea, or if the stylists coordinated that on their own."

"It was my idea."

"Good job."

Tamika cocked an eyebrow. "That's it?"

Silas shrugged. "What else am I supposed to say? The tribute parade is meant to entertain the audience and put the tributes on display. You did that. Good job."

"It's just that President Snow would … Well, he'd have a lot more to say."

Silas smiled a little. "I'm sure he would. But I'm not here to tell you how to do your job, Tamika. I trust there was a reason for what you did."

Trust. Something Snow had never given her. "There was."

Silas nodded. "Then keep up the good work." He turned to leave.

"Mr. President?" Tamika called before correcting herself. "Silas? What about the volunteers?"

Silas cocked an eyebrow. "The volunteers?"

"The ones who aren't Careers, I mean. The boy from Two, the boy from Eight, the boy from Eleven. Do you think they're…?"

"Rebels? Planning something? I doubt it. Volunteering for a sibling isn't unheard of, and that accounts for two of them. As for Septimus, I've called in a favor; an old friend of mine is going to do a little investigating. But I doubt he's planning anything … subversive. And, even if he is, he's one tribute. One out of forty-six. The rebels were able to cause a stir last year because they had numbers on their side. That won't happen again."

"I just figured that, after last year, it might be better to be cautious."

Silas nodded. "There's caution, and there's paranoia. I'll let you know what I find out, but I wouldn't worry too much about it. You do your job, I'll do mine, and the tributes will do theirs. It works better that way."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I look forward to seeing what you've got in store."

Tamika smiled as he left, then turned to her fellow Gamemakers. "All right, then. You heard him. We do our jobs, we put on a good show, and we let the rest take care of itself." She nodded crisply.

"Let's get to work."

* * *

"_Welcome to the wonderful world of not knowing what the hell's going on."_


	20. Training: Emerge

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Training is going to go a bit differently this time. I wanted to give every tribute a point of view, but if I did that with my usual format – one chapter for each day of training – there would be 15 or 16 povs in a chapter. That's a lot. So I decided to split each day in half – morning and evening, roughly – to make them a bit more manageable (for both reading and writing). Which adds up to six training chapters rather than three, but each is half the size – seven or eight tributes per chapter – so it evens out.

Also, please don't be disappointed if you don't see your tribute in this chapter ... or the next one, for that matter. It doesn't mean I don't like them. It just means they're getting their pov on a different day. Training chapters, for me, are largely dedicated to alliance-forming, and alliances don't (and shouldn't) all form on the first day.

So, now, without further ado, the first batch of tributes.

* * *

**Training Day One – Morning  
****Emerge**

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

She was still a bit groggy from the drugs.

Presley awoke to a hand on her shoulder. Instinctively, she lashed out, scratching and kicking as well as she could in her dazed state. Immediately, there was a cry of pain, and the hand withdrew. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Presley's vision slowly cleared a little. "I thought you were—" she started, but couldn't finish. In a haze, she'd thought he was Mr. Rafferty. But the headmaster's touch had never been so gentle – not even in the beginning.

"I'm sorry," Nicodemus repeated. "You were still asleep. I thought you might want some breakfast before training."

Breakfast. Training. Slowly, she pieced it together. "It's morning?"

"I'm afraid it is. How much do you remember?"

The memories came in bits and pieces. They'd brought her to the stylists. They'd wanted to…

Presley's hand flew to her head, searching for her hair. But there was only skin. Her hands, still shaking, traced her scalp from top to bottom, but stopped when they found an iron collar still fastened around her neck.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to lash out. She wanted to leap out of her bed, track down every one of the stylists, and teach them a lesson the Capitol would never forget. But even sitting up took all her effort. They'd given her sedatives – a pretty high dose, judging by how foggy her brain felt. "How am I supposed to…" She wasn't sure how to finish that sentence. _How am I supposed to train? _or _How am I supposed to kill anyone if I feel like this?_

Nicodemus apparently decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume the former. "It'll wear off soon enough, I imagine. But if you start to give them trouble, they'll put you under again. That's no way to spend—"

He cut himself off, but she could hear the missing words. _That's no way to spend your last days. _If she went after the stylists – if she managed to kill one or two of them – the Gamemakers would see to it that she died. She may have already ruined her chances of coming out alive. She tucked her knees to her chest, shaking uncontrollably. "What can I do?"

Nicodemus laid a hand gently on her shoulder, and, this time, she didn't pull away. She simply sat there, shaking, wondering why he was here. He had five other tributes to worry about. Why waste time with the young murderer who had probably already sealed her fate?

"You want to fight them," Nicodemus said quietly. "You want to make them pay for what they did. What they're doing. I understand that. Believe me, I do. But that's not the only option."

"You want me to just give up?"

"No. Never."

"Then what? What's the other option?"

"The hardest one." His hand left her shoulder. He ran his fingers along one of his crippled legs, then patted the side of his wheelchair. "The Peacekeepers who did this to me … They were at the reaping. They carried me up to the stage and dumped me in front of the whole crowd. There was a part of me that wanted to fight back – to strike out at them, to break them the same way they had broken me. There was another part – a larger part – that wanted to just give up. To just lie there and let them win."

Presley nodded. "But you got up. I saw you." She smiled a little. "I was watching."

"Then you know I didn't strike back. But I didn't give up, either. I just got back in my chair and … and went on with my job. That's what you need to do now, Presley. Get up. Go on with your training. Be patient – just for a little while. Then, once you're in the arena … give them what they want to see."

Presley nodded. She could do that. She hoped she could.

And she was about to find out.

* * *

**Kendall Rios, 18  
****District Four**

"You've _got _to be kidding me."

Kendall stared in disgust at the outfit that lay on the bed: a shapeless grey shirt with a large, black "4" covering the front, baggy black pants that had been torn off just below the knees, and a rope that was meant either to hold the pants up or to strangle herself – she wasn't sure which. Both the pants and the shirt were several sizes too large for her, and she saw no sign of socks or shoes.

Kendall gritted her teeth. It was bad enough that the stylists had made fools of them during the chariot rides. Bad enough that an iron collar still hung around her neck, and bad enough that her head had been completely shaved. Now she had to go to training looking like a beggar.

Normally, she wouldn't have cared – not _that _much, at least. They were going into the arena, after all. After a few days, the ones who were still alive – even the Careers – would be plenty dirty and disheveled. That was how the Games worked. She'd known that when she volunteered. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was the other Careers.

Districts One and Two. The ones who would be watching her. Studying her. Deciding whether she should be allowed in their alliance. If she went to training looking like this…

But what was the alternative? She searched the closets, but found only underclothes. Maybe she could wear her nightclothes, but that would be even more ridiculous. For a moment, she even considered going naked. Brevin had discarded his own chariot outfit the night before, after all, in favor of nothing at all. But that was worse, as well.

So she would just have to deal with it.

Kendall clenched her fists. It wasn't that big a problem. She would have to deal with worse in the arena, after all. But the worst of it was that she shouldn't have been in this position at all. She should have been Naomi's first choice. _Would _have been her first choice, if her mentor had any sense.

Which was why she was glad Mavina had decided not to bother trying to join Districts One and Two. Not that they would have taken her, anyway, but, just in case they had – in case they were blind, just like Naomi – Kendall was glad she hadn't given them the choice. This way, when she killed Mavina, no one would suspect that it was anything but one Career pack attacking another.

_When_ she killed Mavina.

There was no 'if' in her mind. It was just a matter of when she got the opportunity. Maybe during the bloodbath. Maybe later. But, one way or another, she would be the one to kill the little pretender.

But not yet. Tributes weren't allowed to even fight each other during training, to say nothing of trying to kill each other. So Kendall slipped into her hideous training outfit and joined the others for breakfast.

The other five were already there – Auster and Brevin at one end of the table, Jarlan, Imalia, and Mavina at the other. Brevin, Jarlan, and Imalia wore the same stupid outfit as Kendall. Mavina and Auster, on the other hand, wore skin-tight, navy blue shirts with a dark red stripe down each arm, and full-length black training pants, similarly striped. Black socks, black shoes. Each shirt had a small, red "4" embroidered on the left front side. Auster wore his proudly, while Mavina seemed to be embarrassed for wearing it while the others in her alliance were dressed in rags.

Or perhaps she simply knew it should have been Kendall's.

Kendall sat down beside Auster, ignoring the others as she ate her breakfast. It didn't matter. None of it. She could impress the other Careers despite her outfit, despite her collar, despite her shaved head and bare feet. Her training would have to speak for itself.

And she was about to put that to the test.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

"Nice of them to save us the trouble of splitting them."

Naella glanced at Jaime, who was watching the tributes from District Four. She and Inviticus had accepted Naella as an ally without question. They were less decisive about the tributes from Four, however.

Which, to some degree, made sense. District Four had six tributes. They could have formed their own pack. Instead, they had clearly split themselves into two groups of three. One group, clearly intent on joining Districts One and Two, had been showing off at the weapons stations for nearly an hour, knowing they were being watched. Judged. Evaluated.

The other group was chatting with Septimus.

Chatting was a relative term, of course. One of the boys from Four was doing most of the talking. Septimus' expression was neutral, but Naella had a feeling she knew where this conversation would go. Sure enough, after a few minutes, Septimus nodded his head and walked away. Whether that was a _No thank you _or an _I'll think about it_, Naella wasn't sure, but both were likely to turn out the same, in the end.

"We could just take all three," Jaime suggested, keeping her voice low despite their distance from the District Four tributes.

Naella didn't say anything, but, if she was being honest, that didn't sound like a bad idea. All three seemed to be more than capable. The larger boy – the blonde – didn't seem to have tired at all, despite sparring with one of the trainers for the better part of an hour. The smaller boy – although 'small' was relative – the one with the shaved head, seemed to have even more energy, flitting from one weapons station to another without stopping. A little swordplay, a little spear throwing, a little knife work. Versatility was good, especially in a year like this. The girl had spent an hour alternating between a mace, a club, and a flail, breaking apart dummies with ease and precision.

All three seemed like good options, but she wanted to hear what her allies had to say.

"We can't take all three," Inviticus grumbled. "They'll almost outnumber us."

"Okay, but we're clearly still in charge," Jaime pointed out. "Just look at the way they're showing off for us. They _want _us to accept them. Invite them into _our _group. If they wanted to form their own group, they could have, but they're _asking _to be let into ours. Why not let them?"

"Because they've already done what we wanted them to – split themselves up," Inviticus pointed out. "Just like you said. So why not keep it that way? The three of us, the three of them, and the other three. Three packs. What's wrong with that?"

Jaime cocked an eyebrow. "You really think it'll stay that way? If we reject all three of them, you think they're just going to sit there and take it? They'll probably just go back to their own district partners – and then there will be six of them and three of us. And, even if they do stay split, we'll be their first targets – out of anger and spite. Why make enemies when we can make allies?"

"Allies we can't trust."

Jaime sighed, exasperated. "You don't trust anyone. You barely trust Naella and me. It's like Jade said; we don't have to trust them forever. But right now, going into the Games, we _need_ more allies." She turned to Naella. "What do you think?"

Naella watched them for a moment, thinking it through. She knew what she thought, but did she really want to _say _what she thought? Both were waiting for her. Both were counting on her.

And both were right – to some extent. Jaime was right about needing allies. Inviticus was right about being cautious – though perhaps not that cautious. There was caution, and there was paranoia. She didn't want to end up on the wrong side of Inviticus' paranoia. But she didn't want to end up with these two was her only allies, either. Either way, she lost.

Either way, she was about to make an enemy.

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18  
****District One**

"Jaime's right."

Inviticus opened his mouth to respond, but Naella kept right on talking. "We need allies. With forty-six tributes, do you really think the three of us are going to be able to go it alone? To hold the cornucopia _and _go out looking for tributes. When's the last time three Careers successfully held the cornucopia for any length of time even with the regular number of tributes?"

Inviticus crossed his arms. "Jade's year."

Naella nodded. "True, though, technically, neither of his allies was a Career by our standards. But that was thirty-five years ago. When else?"

"The Tenth Games," Jaime answered after a moment. "Thea and her allies. Stellar told me."

"Did she tell you who those allies were?" Naella asked in a tone that clearly said she already knew.

"Her district partner, Alicante. And Kaji – the boy from Seven. Their other two allies died in the bloodbath, but they managed to hold the cornucopia the entire Games. Kaji and Alicante left Thea to guard the cornucopia while they hunted."

"True," Naella agreed. "When else?" After a moment of silence, she answered her own question. "Naomi's year – the 14th Games. The only other Careers were the pair from One." She waited a moment. "So what's the difference?"

"The difference?" Inviticus repeated.

"Between then and now. The Seventh Games. The Tenth. The Fourteenth. A strong three-member Career pack hasn't happened since then. Why not?"

"More Careers," Jaime pointed out. "Jade's year, he was the only Career. There was one other boy who had trained Thea's year, but no alliances that really posed a threat to the Career pack after the bloodbath. Naomi's year, the tributes from One were the only other Careers."

"Exactly. There have been a few packs of four since then, but most of the time, it's five or six – sometimes more. If it's just the three of us, we won't be the biggest pack. Or the strongest pack. Especially this year. We won't even be close. If even one of District Four's tributes goes back to the other three after we reject them, they already outnumber us – and we've made ourselves their first target, when it should be the other way around."

"We should take the three of them," Jaime repeated. "Six of us. That's a good number. A strong pack."

Inviticus shook his head. "And what if I say no?"

Jaime glared right back. "Then maybe we'll take the three of them and leave you. Five of us. And then maybe _you'll _be our first target."

Inviticus almost said _Go right ahead_. But Jaime's glance made him think better of it. She wasn't bluffing. She would be more than happy to leave him behind.

Maybe it was better that way. Maybe having no allies at all was better than having allies he couldn't trust. If they were this ready to turn on him now...

No. No, he needed them – at least for the moment. Which meant that he would need to tolerate the allies they chose. He could always turn on them later. He could always kill them later.

And Jade was right; having them as allies might even make killing them easier.

"All right, then," Inviticus conceded. "We take the three of them. But no one else. Not District Five. Not the boy from Two. Just those three."

Jaime nodded. "Fair enough."

They settled into a resentful silence as they headed over to where the tributes from Four were still showing off at the weapons stations. The matter was decided – for now, at least. But now he had three more allies he wasn't sure he could trust.

And Naella and Jaime – could he even trust them? They had sided with each other, in favor of District Four. Against him. His own district partner had already turned against him. And an ally he had thought he could trust had backed her up.

He wasn't about to forget that.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

She had made the right choice.

Jaime flashed Naella a quick smile as the two of them made their way to the weapons station. Naella nodded back silently. Inviticus trailed behind, clearly disappointed, but, for the moment, willing to abide by Jaime and Naella's decision.

But for how long?

The three District Four tributes grouped up as Jaime, Naella, and Inviticus joined them. For a moment, there was an awkward silence. They all knew why they were there, but none of the District Four tributes wanted to be the first to say it. Jaime glanced at Inviticus, but he was still sulking behind the other two, clearly not about to make the invitation.

Maybe it was her job.

"We came to invite you to join our alliance," Jaime finally blurted out.

The bald-headed boy immediately started grinning from ear to ear. The girl simply nodded, satisfied. The blonde boy looked a little confused. "All three of us? I thought—"

"We accept," the girl interrupted before he could get any farther. "Kendall Rios."

"Brevin Tolett," said the bald boy.

"Auster Maverick," said the blonde.

Jaime nodded. "Jaime Gloire. This is Naella Sareen and Inviticus Cassiano."

Brevin whistled. "Inviticus Cassiano. That's a mouthful. Got a nickname?"

Inviticus glared. "No."

Brevin shook his head. "Shame. What if we need to warn you really quick or something – like _Get out of the way, Inviti— Oh, no! Too late!_"

"I wouldn't put myself in a position to rely on you for a warning," Inviticus growled.

Brevin shrugged. "That's what friends are for."

Inviticus looked about ready to throttle Brevin. "We may be temporary allies, Four, but we are _not_ friends." He stormed over to the spear station to skewer a few dummies.

Jaime shrugged. "He'll be back." Part of her, though, was starting to hope that he wouldn't be. Starting to think that this alliance would be a lot easier to manage without her own district partner.

Jaime shook the thought from her head. That wasn't important right now. Right now, the important thing was getting to know her new allies. And the best way to do that was to test their loyalty. "So, your district partners," she started. "What can you tell me?"

Brevin looked a little uncomfortable. Auster gave a shrug, as if the others weren't important now. But Kendall spoke up immediately. "They've formed their own pack of three, but they're looking for more recruits. I saw them with the boy from Two earlier, but that didn't look too promising. My guess is they'll go for District Five next. So if you're considering offering them an alliance—"

Jaime shook her head. "We're not. This is it – you three and us three."

Auster nodded. "Fair enough."

"Who's leading their alliance?" Jaime asked.

"Jarlan, probably," Kendall offered. "But I haven't noticed any significant … internal disagreements," she finished with a glance at Inviticus.

Jaime nodded. "We're settling that."

"Mm-hmm."

"What about the first girl who volunteered?" Jaime asked, changing the subject. "What's her story?"

The look in Kendall's eyes let Jaime know she'd hit a nerve. But, after a moment of seething, Kendall answered. "Naomi initially chose Mavina's sister, Elira, to volunteer. Elira chickened out, but, instead of going with the next logical choice, Elira convinced them to choose her sister, instead. She has no idea what she's doing, but the others apparently haven't figured it out yet."

Jaime nodded. "So she's their weakest link."

"Definitely."

Good to know. Jaime glanced at Naella, who nodded approvingly. Jaime eyed her curiously. So far, she'd gone along with everything Jaime had said, deferring to her judgment. She'd even gone up against Inviticus to defend her choice of allies. Jaime may have lost her district partner's trust, but she'd gained three useful allies – at least in part thanks to Naella.

She wasn't about to forget that.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

Someone had to be the weakest link.

Brevin smiled as he flung another knife at a dummy. For a moment, none of the rest mattered. The obnoxious training outfits didn't matter. The collar around his neck didn't matter. It didn't matter that he had upset one of his allies and that the others probably saw him as a useless goofball.

Someone had to be the useless goofball.

They would have realized it eventually – realized that he was the odd one out. Even Auster had seemed surprised when the invitation to join the alliance had been extended to all three of them – not just himself and Kendall. The rest of them were eighteen. The rest of them had been the trainers' first choice for a volunteer – or _should _have been, in Kendall's case. He was the one who had volunteered on a whim, the seventeen-year-old who could have waited another year but had decided to take a chance.

He was the one they would never see coming.

No one would target him first. Jaime, Inviticus, and Naella wouldn't risk angering Auster and Kendall by going after him – at least not at first. The other alliances wouldn't see him as a threat; they would be able to tell he wasn't the leader of the pack. Exactly who _was_, Brevin wasn't sure. But it certainly wasn't him.

And that was just fine with him. Leaders of Career packs had a tendency to be targeted first – successfully or not. One of the first things Jaime had asked, after all, was who was leading the other alliance. If they could take out Jarlan, his alliance would probably fall. If another alliance went after Brevin, they got nothing. They would target Jaime, or Inviticus, or maybe even Auster or Kendall. Hell, they would probably target Naella before they got around to him.

So maybe he was the weakest link. But he had made the right decision – joining their pack rather than Jarlan's. He was useful enough for them to accept, but not intimidating enough for them to consider him a threat. Perfect.

Brevin threw another knife, then headed back to the sword station and lost himself in the repetitiveness of hacking at dummies. For a while, he felt like he was back at the training center. Just another day of training with the other hopeful teenagers of District Four, waiting to be picked for the fight of his life.

For half a moment, he _wished _he was back at the training center.

Brevin shook the thought from his head as he struck down another dummy. He couldn't afford to start thinking like that. Not now. He was here. He had volunteered for this.

He _wanted _this.

Didn't he?

Brevin slashed at another dummy, imagining. Imagining that he was already in the Games, striking down not a dummy, but a living, breathing person. He slashed again; it wouldn't be living for long.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a tribute. One of the outer-district girls, with a shaved head and a large "9" on her baggy shirt. Watching him with bright green eyes. Pretending not to watch. Pretending not to be interested.

Pretending not to be afraid.

For a moment, Brevin returned her gaze. The girl couldn't be more than fifteen – no older than his own sister, London. What color hair had she had before they'd shaved it all off? Was it the same dark brown as his sister's?

Probably not. Brevin shook his head as the girl looked away. Why had the thought even occurred to him? His sister wasn't in the Games. His sister would probably never be in the Games. Even if she was picked, someone would volunteer.

Someone like him.

Brevin turned back to the dummy, but, for the first time in years, his heart wasn't in it. The dummy suddenly looked less like an armed opponent and more like a fifteen-year-old girl. More like his sister. He raised his sword, and struck once. Twice.

He was about to slice the dummy in half when the bell rang for lunch.

* * *

**Auster Maverick, 18  
****District Four**

It seemed almost too easy.

Auster sat down with Jaime, Naella, Kendall, and Brevin at a table in the center of the room. After a moment, even Inviticus decided to join them. Getting the other Careers to accept them hadn't been anywhere near as difficult as he'd imagined. In fact, he was beginning to wonder what would have happened if they'd asked the others to take _all _the tributes from Four. Was Jarlan right? Should they have stuck together – all or none?

No. No, they would never have accepted all of them. But the way they'd accepted Brevin without question made him think twice. Auster himself had probably been an easy decision; he'd clearly been the mentors' first choice to volunteer. And Kendall could have been, if the trainers hadn't been so insistent about keeping the volunteer in Elira's family. But Brevin … What made him a better choice than Jarlan or Imalia? Could they have gotten in, too?

And if they could…

Auster glanced around at the other tributes. Bald heads and heads of hair. Stylish outfits and rags. Were the Gamemakers trying to split them apart? Make them turn on each other? If so, it certainly didn't seem to be working among the Careers. Brevin and Kendall had been accepted despite their collars and rags. Jarlan and Imalia hadn't shown any resentment towards Mavina.

A few of the outer districts had started to form small groups, as well. Five of the tributes from District Six sat together in a group, though not all of them seemed happy with that arrangement. The red-haired girl – the only girl who still _had _hair – was glancing around nervously, as if her allies might turn on her at any moment. One of the other girls looked just as uneasy, but the other one was smiling contentedly – almost as if she wasn't a contestant in a fight to the death.

At a table in the corner, the pair from Twelve was eating together. The boy and older girl from Nine sat a few tables away. Two of the girls from Eight – a large blonde and a twiggy girl without hair – were chatting away in another corner while they both watched the other tributes. The three younger tributes from District Eleven were clearly a group – though certainly not one he was concerned about.

And the pair from Five was headed towards them.

Auster glanced around the table as the boy and girl approached. The boy smiled politely. "Is this table full?"

"Yes." The reply came from Inviticus and Kendall at once. Auster glanced at his district partner, who shrugged. Maybe she was simply trying to agree with their new allies. Stay on their good side. But was there really any harm in letting the two eat lunch with them?

The girl's face turned beet red; that was clearly _not _the answer she had been expecting. But although it hadn't been the most polite way of phrasing it, at least they weren't sending mixed signals. Both of them took the hint and left.

Just like that.

Maybe getting into the Career pack _wasn't _so easy.

But he was in. And Kendall and Brevin. Half of District Four. And the other half hadn't wanted to be included, anyway. They'd made their own choice.

A choice that made them enemies. Allies came before district loyalty; Kendall had made that clear earlier when she'd spilled as much information as she could about the others. And why not? They didn't know Jarlan or Imalia or Mavina – not really. The fact that they came from the same district didn't mean anything. They were competition now, just like everyone else.

Weren't they?

They would certainly see it that way. Jarlan wouldn't see Auster, Kendall, and Brevin as anything but targets now. Nothing but three more members of the Career pack. A Career pack that rivaled his own. And only one could win.

No. No, that was wrong. Career packs didn't win. One tribute did. One. In the end, allies didn't matter any more than district loyalty.

He wasn't about to let either get in his way.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

At least now they knew where they stood.

Zach settled into a seat across the table from Liana. "I guess that's that."

Liana looked up, surprised. "That's it? We're just giving up?"

Zach shrugged. "You heard them. They don't want us. If we pester them for three days, we may eventually be able to talk them into letting us join them, but then what? We'll be the tag-alongs, the ones they didn't want from the start. And then they'll turn on us at the first opportunity – just like they did to Camden."

"So we … what? Form our own pack?"

"Or join the other one. The tributes from Four. They may be a bit more … open-minded."

"Desperate," Liana translated. "They're the ones the others didn't want. Why should we?"

"Because we're _also _the ones the others didn't want," Zach pointed out. "And if we try to form our own pack … Who's left? Maybe the boy from Two. Not much of a pack – not when the other group has six. But if we join District Four—"

"Three of them, two of us," Liana reasoned. "That's five. Even with the boy from Two, that's six – at the most."

"That's a lot better than three."

"But less than eight – which is what we would have if we join the main pack."

Zach shook his head. "They don't want us. They made that pretty clear. And remember what Harakuise said on the train. We don't want to end up outside a pack."

"He also said to wait," Liana pointed out.

"To wait and see what groups form. But they already have. And we don't really have much of a choice."

Liana shook her head. "There's always a choice."

"_What _choice?"

"I don't know," Liana admitted. "But I think we should wait."

Maybe she was right. But there was a part of him that didn't want to wait any more – not if it could mean losing the chance at an alliance. At the very least, it certainly wouldn't hurt to introduce himself. Maybe find out how receptive the other alliance would be…

Slowly, Zach stood up, taking his plate with him. "Wait here if you want. I'm going to talk to District Four."

They didn't seem surprised to see him. In fact, the boy was smiling warmly as he gestured to a chair. The smile was almost enough to distract Zach from his raggedy outfit, shaved head, and collar.

Almost.

"I was hoping you'd join us," the boy nodded. "Saves us the trouble of finding you. It's Zachary, right?"

"Zach."

"Good to meet you, Zach." The boy held out his hand, which Zach shook before taking a seat. "I'm Jarlan. This is Imalia and Mavina. Come to join our alliance?"

Zach blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jarlan shrugged. "Well, admittedly, I've never done this before, but I was just assuming that when one Career joins another group of Careers at a table for lunch, you're not just here for the chit-chat. How long did it take District One to say no?"

Zach smiled wryly. "About five seconds."

Imalia nodded. "That's why we didn't ask. You're welcome to join us, Zach."

Welcome. That wasn't something he had expected. Not so soon. Not so easily. "Just like that?" What was the catch?

Jarlan smiled a little. "Just like that. And why not? We need more members. You need a pack. Sounds like a perfect match."

Zach smirked. "You try that line on the boy from Two?"

"He said he'd get back to us," Jarlan nodded. "I guess he's looking for a better option."

"So's my district partner," Zach admitted. "I don't think she realizes more Careers aren't going to just appear out of nowhere."

"Let's hope not," Jarlan laughed. "There are quite enough of us as it is."

That much was certainly true. Twelve Careers was _more _than enough. It meant the larger pack could afford to be choosy. But he couldn't be.

He wasn't about to lose this chance.

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge."_


	21. Training: Struggling

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Not much to say, aside from, "Here's part two of the first day of training, and our second batch of tributes." So ... here they are.

* * *

**Training Day One – Evening  
****Struggling**

* * *

**Paget Astier, 15  
****District Six**

The hardest part was trying not to smile.

Paget glanced around the table at his allies, soaking it all in. Every moment. Every moment of this was a little victory – for him and for his sister. For years, they had been rejected by everyone they met. Scorned. Humiliated. For years, he had watched the satisfaction on other teens' faces as he and his sister were belittled and tormented.

Now it was his turn.

It was his turn to watch while _they _were humiliated. While they suffered through the same cruelty that he and Cordelia had endured for years. Maybe it was wrong to enjoy the humiliation on their faces. The downcast looks. Some of the tributes were fiddling with their collars. Others ran their hands over where their hair used to be, as if doing so would make it appear again. A few had tried to shape their raggedy clothes into something more presentable, trying to preserve at least a little of their dignity.

But they didn't deserve that dignity. They deserved exactly what they were getting. Every moment of it. Every last one of them.

And if he had to watch – if he had to be here with them – then he was damn well going to enjoy it.

That hadn't been the plan – not initially. His first thought had been to convince the other three to help them retrieve supplies from the bloodbath, then turn on them immediately once they'd made it to relative safety. Watching them die … He hadn't thought anything could be more satisfying than that.

But this was better – better than any death he could have devised himself. So he would let them live as long as they liked, as long as it meant he could watch. Watch them struggle along – pathetic, cringing shadows of the people they used to be. Prisoners. Animals. Barely even human anymore.

Alexi adjusted his collar so that it rubbed against a different part of his neck. "So what's the plan? Do we look for more allies, or…?" He trailed off. _Or is this it?_

There was a part of him that wanted more. More allies. More people to watch. But there was danger there, too. If their alliance grew too large, others would start to notice them. Enough people, and even the Careers might see them as a threat due to sheer numbers. Five was enough. He would have preferred six – would have preferred that Delvin join them, as well – but the boy had shown no interest. And if he pressed the matter, Delvin might win over some of the others.

Paget glanced around the room, looking for Delvin. Finally, he found him – on the opposite side of the room, sitting with a boy and a girl from Nine. A boy and girl in regular training outfits, with shoes on their feet and hair on their heads.

Paget nodded. Part of him had hoped that Delvin would be unable to find another alliance and would come crawling back to them. But, with forty-six tributes, and with Delvin being one of the oldest, that had clearly been too much to hope for.

So he would have to make do with what he had.

"I think five is enough," Paget said at last. "Smaller than the Careers, but probably bigger than most of the other groups that will form. Probably a good position to be in."

Alexi nodded along. Presley smiled agreeably, as if she was trying to enjoy herself but just couldn't muster the same enthusiasm as before. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it would wear off. Or maybe it wouldn't. Didn't matter much, either way. She seemed perfectly fine with Paget's assessment.

Nadine, on the other hand, wasn't so easily convinced. "Shouldn't we at least talk to some of the others – get to know a few of them? We might find someone else who would be…"

_Would be a good addition to the group? Would be better than this? _Paget wasn't sure how that sentence was going to end, but it didn't matter. He shrugged. "No one's stopping you." He couldn't afford to appear too forceful. Too controlling. For now, his role was simply to watch.

And he would be watching her.

* * *

**Gadget Test, 16  
****District Eight**

The hardest part was trying not to stare.

Gadget glanced around the room, her gaze flitting from one person to another. Watching. Taking everything in. Ivira sat beside her, wordlessly doing the same. They had spent the morning together at a few of the survival stations, learning how to start a fire and then a little about plants. That was certainly important – plants. Plants or hunting. Some way of finding food.

But the knowledge they could gain in a few days was no substitute for the real thing – someone who actually knew what they were doing around plants. Someone who could actually start a fire without having to think through every step. There wasn't much need for that sort of thing in District Eight. They needed to branch out.

Branches.

"You think he's a good choice?" Ivira asked, and Gadget realized she'd been staring at the boy from Seven. Actually, she hadn't been thinking anything of the sort. She'd been staring at his feet. Despite his regular training outfit, unshaved head, and bare neck, he wasn't wearing any shoes. He looked different. Out of place.

Just like her.

Just like both of them.

So maybe he _was _a good choice. Ivira certainly seemed to think so. And District Seven – trees. That was a good start. Gadget nodded. "I think so."

"Let's go talk to him, then."

_Go talk to him_. Like it was so easy. Maybe it was, for her. Everything seemed to be so easy for Ivira.

People had never been easy for her. They always seemed uncomfortable. _Don't stare, Gadget. Don't stand so close, Gadget. You're too loud, Gadget._

But Ivira didn't complain. She didn't seem to mind. Ivira had _wanted _to be her ally. Maybe even her friend.

The boy had finished his food and was heading back to the survival stations. Now that he was standing, she could see how small he was. One of the younger tributes. Smaller. But Ivira had said that didn't matter. They already had Gadget's size going for them. People always told her she was too tall. Too big.

But here, she was perfect.

Gadget followed Ivira back to the fire-starting station, where the boy already had a fire going. Why was he practicing something he clearly already knew? Was he trying to show off his skills? Attract allies? Or was it comforting to start with something he was already familiar with?

Or maybe he just _liked _fire.

The boy looked up, surprised, as Gadget and Ivira joined him. Gadget remained standing, her arms across her chest, but Ivira sat down next to the boy, grinning. "Nice fire."

The boy didn't seem quite sure what to say to that. "Thanks, I guess."

"Can you show me?"

Gadget watched, confused, as the boy talked Ivira through the same steps the trainer had shown them earlier. Ivira already knew how to do this. Why was she pretending not to?

But, soon enough, Ivira had a fire going. The boy was smiling, impressed that she had learned so quickly. Except she hadn't. It had taken Ivira at least a dozen tries to get it right earlier. But now, she had appeared to pick up the skill in a few minutes. "You're good at this," the boy observed.

Ivira shrugged. "You're a good teacher. I guess we make a pretty good team."

The boy nodded. Just like that. "I guess we do. I'm Domingo."

"I'm Ivira, and this is Gadget."

The boy waved up at her, then turned back to Ivira. "Want to see some more?"

By the time they'd talked through a few more techniques with different materials, the boy had agreed to an alliance. A few fires later, they had lost Gadget's attention. Fires were great, and the boy probably knew a bit about plants, but what they _really _needed was someone who knew a bit about animals. Someone who could set a trap, maybe, or at least had some experience with preparing an animal to eat.

After a moment, Ivira seemed to notice her attention had drifted. She stood up, following Gadget's gaze. She'd been staring again. Ivira smiled.

"You think she's a good choice?"

* * *

**Calantha Harlyn, 16  
****District Ten**

The hardest part was ignoring her district partners.

Calantha turned back to the snare she was making, trying to focus on that. Trying not to notice Indira and Beckett at one of the weapons stations, trying out a hatchet and a pickax. Trying not to notice Elizabet hovering in a corner by the edible plants station – alone for the moment. She had already ruled them out as allies – or they had ruled her out. Beckett and Indira were already a team; they probably wouldn't want her tagging along. And Elizabet…

No. No, that wouldn't work. Calantha felt sorry for her, but that was exactly the problem. She couldn't afford to have allies she felt sorry for. She needed allies who could help _her_, not the other way around. Allies who would be useful. Allies who could pull their own weight.

"Mind if we join you?"

Calantha nearly jumped as a girl plopped down beside her. A giant "8" covered the front of her shirt, but that didn't seem to bother her any more than her shaved head, collar, and bare feet. The girl was practically a twig, but she was beaming confidently, nonetheless.

'We' apparently included her and the two tributes behind her – a smaller boy from Seven and a much larger girl from Eight. What did they want from her? The snare station hadn't seemed like the most popular place – which was part of the reason she'd chosen it in the first place. She had wanted to get her bearings with something that looked relatively easy before moving on.

But it was harder than it looked.

The skinny girl seemed impressed, anyway. "Ever make one of these before?"

For a moment, she considered lying. But what would be the point? It was clear she had no idea what she was doing. "Not before today," she admitted. Better not to mention the rest – that this was her fifth attempt.

"Looks good for a first try," the girl said encouragingly. "You catch on quickly."

That couldn't have been farther from the truth, but Calantha smiled, anyway. It felt good to hear a little praise, no matter how misdirected. "Thanks. I'm Calantha."

"Ivira. This is Gadget and Domingo."

The boy – apparently Domingo – sat down and started his own snare, ignoring the rest of them. Gadget remained standing. But Ivira continued. "I saw you during the chariots last night. Clever idea – slicing up the meat."

Calantha nodded along. Actually, it had been Indira's idea. The rest of them had just gone along with it. But she wasn't about to say that. "Thanks. It seemed like a better idea than just standing there."

Ivira nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. That's the right attitude – not just standing there and waiting for something to happen, but going out there and making the best of a bad situation."

Making the best of it. Calantha glanced back at her snare. That's what she'd been trying to do ever since the reaping – make the best of things. Piece together a better image for herself than what she'd shown then. And, apparently, it had worked. Ivira had noticed her. And if _she _had, then maybe other people had, too. Maybe the audience had noticed. Maybe the _sponsors_ had noticed.

Part of her felt bad taking credit for Indira's idea. But she couldn't afford to be modest. She couldn't afford to be generous. And for all they knew it _had _been her idea. For all _she _knew, she may have thought of it eventually. Indira had just gotten there first.

Ivira was still talking. "And that's exactly the sort of attitude that will be useful in the Games. You're not the sort who's going to wait around for things to fall into place – I can tell. You're not going to wait for tributes to come after you. You're a predator – that much is obvious."

Was it? Was it that obvious? Calantha glanced at her snare. Maybe it was. That's what snares were for, after all: preying on the other tributes. Maybe she _was _a predator.

She certainly wanted to be.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

The hardest part would be putting up with them.

Domingo turned his attention back to his snare as Ivira chattered on. Attitude this. Predator that. Part of him was tempted to simply get up and walk away.

But part of him knew he couldn't afford to.

He wouldn't have to put up with them forever, Domingo reminded himself. He would need protection in the arena – at least for a little while – but, eventually, he could strike out on his own. Once they found food and water. Once they were a bit safer. Then he could leave.

Because he certainly didn't _trust _them. They were a bit too friendly for that. Well, _Ivira _was a bit too friendly. Gadget didn't seem as interested in chit-chat, which suited him just fine. And Calantha … He wasn't quite sure what to make of her.

She didn't seem quite sure what to make of them, either, but, just the same, it didn't take long for her to agree to an alliance. And it took even less time after that for her to become frustrated with the snare she was making. "Damn it," she muttered, tearing some of it apart and tossing the rest of the remains aside. "No one ever won the Games with snares, anyway."

Gadget perked up. "Actually, that's exactly how several people have won the Games. For example, during the Fifth Games, Tania Fray from District Five hid out in a series of caves for most of the Games – and she won when the last tribute stumbled into one of her traps. Nicodemus did the same sort of thing during the 26th Games. When the last two Careers found him, he killed one with a spear, and the other one followed him into a cave, where he'd already laid a trap."

So … twice. Out of forty-one Games, snares had been useful twice. Not great odds, but Domingo wasn't about to say that. After all, out of forty-one Games, how many fourteen-year-olds had won? If something had worked even once during the Games, then it was a viable option.

"True," Ivira agreed. "But, more often, weapons are more useful. So maybe we should—"

"Oh, absolutely!" Gadget agreed. "But what _kind _of weapons – that's the thing. Sometimes there are limited kinds of weapons – like during the Ninth Games. They only had knives. Or, during the 37th Games, there were no weapons at all – only what the sponsors sent, or what they could make themselves. The year before that, Presley won with a piece of wood she found after the ship wrecked. And five years before _that_, Percival won using only a rope. So pretty much anything _can _be used as a weapon."

_Even your mouth_. Domingo _almost _said it. Almost. But he couldn't afford to make enemies. Not when he was supposed to be making allies.

"So what you're saying is we should try out a variety of weapons, because we don't know exactly what'll be in the arena," Calantha reasoned, undeterred by her new ally's sudden outburst of random facts.

Ivira nodded. "Sounds good to me. What would you like to try first?"

Calantha hesitated, as if surprised that Ivira was asking _her_. If they were going to try a little of everything, of course, it didn't really matter where they decided to go first – not really. But giving the choice to Calantha – maybe Ivira thought that was a good way to win over some of her confidence.

"Let's try some knives first," Calantha suggested.

"Good choice," Gadget agreed. "There are almost always knives. Except for the Second Games, when…"

Domingo tuned her out as they headed for the knife station. Maybe she was right. But did she have to be right so _loudly_? They didn't need the other forty-two tributes to know they wanted to practice with some knives.

But maybe that was a good thing. She would draw attention. Anyone watching their group now would see a tall, burly girl rambling about various Games and strategies. They might even notice the skinny girl egging her on. They _wouldn't _notice the other girl simply nodding along. And they _certainly _wouldn't notice him.

Maybe this _wasn't _such a bad idea.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

The hardest part had been admitting he wanted allies.

Delvin watched Sariya and Thane for a moment before joining in. They had found a station of small, bladed weapons that Sariya had suggested would be similar to sickles. Now, with the weapons in their hands, it was clear that neither one of them really knew what they were doing.

But they had the right mindset.

Most of the outer-district tributes were still lingering by the survival stations. Not ready to think about fighting. Not wanting to think about killing. They were wasting time. Maybe knowing how to start a fire was useful, but it wasn't what the audience wanted to see. They wanted to see tributes who could fight.

And he could. He had. He'd fought with his own two hands – and occasionally a knife. But never with anything like this. And never against someone who actually knew what they were doing. This would be harder than any fight he'd ever been in.

So why not get in all the practice he could?

Carefully, Delvin picked up one of the blades. The hilt was long enough for four or five of his hands, the blade about as long as his arm. It was heavy – much heavier than anything he'd swung before – but it felt good in his hands.

It almost felt _right_.

No. No, it wasn't _right_. None of this was right. But right and wrong didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was survival. And, for all of his allies' apparent inexperience, at least they understood that. That alliances weren't about making friends or finding good company or being loyal to a district.

Alliances were for survival. Period. Nothing more.

His district partners still didn't understand that. Paget had them wrapped around his little finger. Ever since the train rides, they had moved as one group. What the boy had planned for them, Delvin wasn't sure, but he wanted no part of it. Two witches, a thirteen-year-old murderer, a boy who just wanted to be friends, and a girl who seemed unsure about the whole alliance but didn't have the spine to just walk away. Not ideal allies.

And maybe Thane and Sariya weren't ideal, either. Neither was terribly impressive physically, but Delvin was no Career himself, either. And they were fighters – or, at least, they could pretend to be. And when their lives were on the line, they would be.

Probably.

Delvin shook the thought from his head. If they weren't – if they turned out to be completely useless once the Games started – he was under no obligation to stay with them. No alliance lasted forever in the Games. Occasionally, an alliance lasted until the end, but then what? The remaining tributes – former allies – were left to kill each other. Every time.

But that wouldn't be him. He wouldn't get attached. And neither would they, Delvin was sure. They'd been friendly enough when they'd approached him, but there had been a coldness, a formality, to the offer. They all knew the difference between an alliance and a friendship, and none of them were prepared to cross that line.

Because they each wanted to be the one to survive.

But it wouldn't be them. It would be him. Given the choice between the two, he would choose himself every time. And each of them would, too, he was sure. There was no sentiment, no warm fuzzy feeling to their alliance. They were here for protection, not for comfort.

And it felt good.

He didn't _want _allies he would feel for. He didn't _want _allies he would feel compelled to protect. He couldn't waste his time trying to protect people who were going to die, anyway, if he wanted to go home.

If he wanted to go home. It always came back to that. He had his mother to think about. His sister. They were waiting for him. They were counting on him.

They needed him more than he needed a friend.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15  
****District Seven**

The hardest part was remembering not to _eat _the edible plants.

Fallon tried her best to concentrate on the plants in front of her. But they all looked exactly alike. All the leaves were green. All the berries were round and various shades of red, blue, or purple. But some of the red ones were okay to eat, and some of them weren't. A certain leaf shape meant poison, while an almost identical leaf shape could be used to make medicine.

Fallon's gaze drifted to a pile of light red berries. They were beginning to look better and better. It seemed like hours since lunch. Would they mind if she ate a few? What would they do if she accidentally ate something poisonous? Would they try to revive her, or would they just let her die? She'd never heard of a tribute dying during training.

"Don't eat those ones." A quiet voice interrupted her. Fallon glanced up to see a girl with a shaved head and a large black "10" on her shirt. "If you want to eat something, try these." She slid a basket of berries over to Fallon's side of the table.

Fallon eyed the berries warily. They looked almost exactly like the ones she'd been about to gobble up. How could the girl tell the difference? Or was she _trying _to poison her? That would be clever – trying to poison another tribute during training.

But, before Fallon's suspicions could go any farther, the girl took a seat beside Fallon, scooped up a handful of berries, and began eating them herself. Fallon smiled a little. That was good enough for her. She popped one of the berries into her mouth. Then a handful.

"Hey!" one of the trainers called, glaring. "Save some of those for the tributes who actually want to learn something!"

Fallon couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. It sounded exactly like something her parents would say. _Fallon, stay out of that_. _Fallon, don't eat those. _The other girl didn't seem to understand what was so funny, but, soon, she was smiling, too. And as soon as the trainer had turned the other way, Fallon scooped up another handful of berries, making the girl giggle a little. "I'm Fallon, by the way. District Seven." Probably a little silly – announcing her district when there was a giant black "7" on her shirt. But she hadn't exactly thought through how she should introduce herself to another tribute.

Apparently, the other girl hadn't, either. "Elizabet – District Ten," she answered. "Can I ask you a question?"

Fallon shrugged. "Sure."

"Where'd you get the shoes?"

The shoes. She'd almost forgotten. "My district partner, Domingo. Said he likes going barefoot. They're almost the right size, too – a little too big."

Elizabet nodded. "Domingo. Are you two … allies?"

Fallon shook her head. "I thought so, maybe, when he offered me the shoes, but he didn't seem interested in anything more than that. And now he's over there with them." She pointed to where Domingo stood at the knife station with two of the girls from Eight and another from Ten. "That's one of your district partners, isn't it?"

"Calantha. She didn't seem interested in allying with me, either." Elizabet hesitated. "Maybe we could … help each other?"

Fallon smiled a little. She'd hoped that one of her district partners would be interested. But Audra and Domingo hadn't been, and Ciere didn't seem to want to ally with _anyone_. Maybe it was time to look elsewhere.

And Elizabet – she could have let Fallon eat the other berries. Maybe she wouldn't have died, but it certainly would have been embarrassing. It would have attracted attention, made the other tributes think she was weak or stupid. But Elizabet had stopped her. Fallon nodded, took off one of her shoes, and passed it to Elizabet. "Allies?"

Elizabet grinned. "Allies." She slipped the shoe on.

It was a perfect fit.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

The hardest part was trying not to say anything.

Adelia kept her mouth shut as Ivira and Gadget once again dominated the conversation at dinner. Gadget was going on about their two new allies – Domingo from District Seven and Calantha from District Ten. How wonderful they were, how useful they were going to be, how great it was that everything was falling into place.

The worst part was that it _did _seem to be falling into place – at least for them. They had two other allies – in addition to each other – while she had exactly zero. There were a few people she was watching, but they didn't seem to have noticed her. Or maybe they had, and simply dismissed her. One of the shaved-headed, iron-collared, raggedy-clothed, barefoot girls from District Eight.

But that was exactly what Ivira was, too – and she was thriving. And her allies … Gadget, Domingo, Calantha. None of them were from the group of 'extra' tributes. None of them were 'replacements.' None of them were wearing rags or collars.

Had she planned it that way?

Adelia glanced up at Ivira in spite of herself. Did she have it right? If the Gamemakers were going to continue to show favor to one group of tributes and punish the others, wouldn't it be an advantage to have allies in the 'right' group?

That didn't seem fair, of course, but, so far, none of this had been fair. Why would the Gamemakers start being fair now? It made perfect sense.

Too much sense.

That was too obvious. Too perfect. Too rigged. If that was the case, then, no matter what she did, her chances of getting out alive were even smaller than she had thought. If the Gamemakers were going to continue to show favor to the other group, one of them would probably win. It was that simple.

She didn't _want _it to be that simple.

One by one, the other tributes headed to their rooms, either finished with dinner or aggravated by Ivira and Gadget's constant chatter. Finally, even the two of them left, leaving Adelia alone with Carolina. Kit had left earlier with Baylor, and Lander had followed Jediah to the other room. But Carolina had stayed…

"Something on your mind?" Carolina asked, offering Adelia another piece of pie.

Adelia accepted the dessert gratefully. "At least they're feeding us the same," she observed wryly.

Carolina smiled a little. "There's that, I suppose." She leaned forward. "You're worried it'll stay this way during the Games – the Capitol favoring one group over the other."

Adelia cocked an eyebrow. "How could you tell?"

"Because it's exactly what I would have been thinking in your place."

That made her feel a little better. "Will they?" she asked. "Are the twenty-two of us 'replacements' just here to be humiliated while they favor the other group?"

Carolina leaned forward a little. "What do you think?"

"I think … Well, that would be unfair, but…"

"But it lets you off the hook."

Adelia looked up, surprised. "What?"

"You heard me. If it's their fault – if they mean for you to die – then you're off the hook. If it's inevitable, if it's just _fate _that you die in the Games, then whatever you do, however hard you try, it doesn't _mean _anything. It's easier that way, isn't it."

"Yes. No. I—" Adelia faltered. It would be easier, certainly. Easier to blame it all on the Capitol. On the Gamemakers. Or maybe on fate, the way Gadget wanted to. But she didn't _want_ to. She didn't _want _to accept that. "Maybe it would be easier," she said at last. "But that doesn't mean it's better."

Carolina nodded slowly. "Now you're getting it. So … what do you think? What do you _really _think they're doing?"

Adelia hesitated. All the while, she'd considered their treatment a punishment. Retaliation for what had happened last year. And that made sense. But what if it was _more _than that? What if it was _better _than that? "What if it's not a punishment?" she asked at last.

"What if it's a clue?"

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

The hardest part was waiting.

Septimus sat silently on the couch, the lights turned down low, long after the others had gone to bed. Naella had turned in first, wanting to get as much sleep as possible. Maybe he should have, as well, but even if he went to bed now, he knew, he still wouldn't sleep. Not for a long time.

So he might as well be awake.

The silence didn't bother him. It never had. He had grown up in silence. Maybe he should have hated it. Resented it. But, instead, he had grown to appreciate the silence, the stillness, in a way that most people didn't. Even the tributes earlier – most of them couldn't sit still. They rushed about this way and that, racing to find allies, racing to learn as much as they could.

Waiting was harder. But it was worth it.

He could have pursued Naella's alliance. Could have insisted that he would be useful, begged them to let him join them, showed off for them like the tributes from Four, desperate to prove their worth. He could have accepted Jarlan's offer, despite the target it would have painted on his back. If he was trying to prove he wasn't a rebel, allying with one of the districts that had instigated the rebellion last year probably _wasn't _the best way to go. Not when there might be other options.

So he was still waiting. For what, he wasn't quite sure. But something would happen. Something would—

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Before he could open it, however, the door slid open on its own, and a man stepped in. "Septimus Drakon," came a voice. "Son of Lucius and Octavia Romayne. Mother fled the Capitol when you were one, attempting to help the rebels. On her way through District Two when she was caught and executed. Raised in Peacekeeper custody ever since."

Septimus recognized the voice before the man stepped into the dimly lit room. "Harakuise Swallot. Son of Odenn and Verana Swallot, a family dedicated to eliminating the remaining rebel force in the districts. Took over the family business at the age of twelve when your father died. Entered the Games at the age of fourteen. Took in your district partner's brother, Jai, who's become your … partner … and helped you raise yet another Victor."

Harakuise settled into a seat across from him. "Is there a question there?"

Septimus shrugged easily. "Your personal life is none of my concern."

"_Your _personal life, on the other hand, is about to become everyone's concern. Military history training. Weapons training. Weapons design. According to your instructors, you're quite a prodigy. And here you are, a volunteer for the Hunger Games." Harakuise leaned forward a little. "Why?"

"I want my life back. The life I should have had. The life I _would _have had – if not for my mother. I was a baby when she fled the Capitol, but she chose to take me – to risk _my _life as well as her own – instead of leaving me in the Capitol where I belonged. I had no say in the matter. I was a _child_."

"I know." There was something odd in Harakuise's eyes – almost regret. "It's a pity your mother was arrested in District Two. Had she been found in District Five, instead … things may have proceeded differently. Not for her, of course, but for you. I've always had a soft spot for children. With the right influence, you could have been a valuable asset."

"I still can be."

"I don't doubt it."

"But first I have to get out of here."

"Out of a position you put yourself in."

"Out of desperation. What would you have done?"

Silence for a moment. "The same," Harakuise admitted. "I was fortunate to be born into a family that chose the right side during the rebellion. You were not. But neither of us is defined by our past, Septimus Drakon. It is the future that we should consider." He leaned forward a little.

"I think I can help you."

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge. It's in there right now, struggling. It's digging its way through the thick hide of the cocoon."_


	22. Training: Help

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's the first part of Training Day Two, and our next batch of tributes.

* * *

**Training Day Two – Morning  
****Help**

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18  
****District Five**

"I told him I'd help him."

Liana stared up at her mentor as the two of them sat down to breakfast. "You _what_? You're supposed to be helping _me_! I'm your tribute!"

Harakuise nodded. "Yes, you are. And he's your ally."

Liana blinked. "He's what?"

"Your ally – if you'll have him. I think it's a good match."

"For him or for me?"

"Both of you. The best alliances are. You have more experience, more training. He's patient, intelligent, and, most importantly, none of the other Careers see him as a threat."

"What if that's because he's _not_?"

Harakuise smiled a little. "He is."

"How can you tell?"

Harakuise's smile widened to a smirk. "Liana, out of the two of us, which one has actually won the Games?"

Liana blushed. "You, but—"

"Do you know how I won my Games, Liana?"

"You killed your district partner."

"I did. But that wasn't my most important kill. She was never the tribute to beat. She lasted as long as she did because of her alliance, because they protected each other. She was never the biggest threat." He leaned forward a little. "Do you know who was?"

"The Careers?" Liana guessed. _Had _there been Careers during his Games?

"Not a bad guess. There were two – Mars and Abstract. Does either name ring a bell?"

"No," Liana admitted.

"Of course not. Mars died in the bloodbath after underestimating a thirteen-year-old boy – and getting quite unlucky. Abstract lasted a bit longer – mostly by sitting outside a cave and picking off younger tributes. But the tribute to beat – the real threat during the Games – was a boy named Sher from District Eleven. In the end, though, he was too smart – too proud – for his own good."

"What happened?"

"I killed him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I lured him into a trap with an offer of banding together, helping each other defeat our alliances from the inside. He was too arrogant to realize that I didn't need to outwit him. I just needed to stab him in the stomach. He was too clever. Too observant. In a fair fight – in a fair battle of wits – he would have bested me. Every time."

"So you cheated."

"I did. And you'll need to do the same, if you're going to get out of here. You're not the strongest. You're not the fastest. And, to be perfectly honest, you're not the most intelligent. But I think you have what it takes to cheat the Game."

"Why?"

"Because you're still waiting. One Career pack rejected you. The other would have accepted you. You shunned both of them. Waiting for something better. Something different. Something the others would never have thought of. This is it, Liana. This is your chance. Form your own pack. One the others will dismiss as a gathering of weaklings. Septimus is a start. He'll probably have a few other ideas, after what I told him last night. Let him form the pack. Let him lead. But be ready."

"Ready to do what? To stab him in the stomach?"

"If you have to. The others won't realize it – certainly the other Careers won't – but he's the tribute to beat. He's the one you need to watch out for. Stay close to him. Let him do the talking. Let him do the planning. But don't trust him for a moment. And don't turn your back on him. Do you understand?"

Of course she understood. _Trust _was never something she'd really considered. Allies were useful, but everyone knew that alliances didn't last forever. Even between Careers. Sometimes _especially _between Careers. "I understand."

"I hope so."

Liana hesitated. "What about Zach?"

Harakuise shook his head. "He's already chosen his alliance. He and Camden have their plan. And now we have ours."

"Is our plan better?" Had Zach had the right idea all along? Would joining District Four have been a better option?

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

**Jediah Bouvier, 15  
****District Eight**

"She needs help."

Jediah smiled a little as Adelia joined him in the hallway. Ivira and Gadget were rambling on again. Which wouldn't have been so bad if they weren't so insistent that he'd made a mistake volunteering, and that his brother had been a coward for letting him.

And the worst part was, he was beginning to wonder if they were right.

But neither of them had known what was coming. Jediah had volunteered for the Games – but not for this. He hadn't known he was volunteering to be chained and degraded and treated like an animal. And Bryson hadn't known – not really – what he was letting his brother volunteer for.

Should they have known? Should they have guessed? Maybe it should have been obvious from the start. 'Replacements' the escort had called them at the reaping. Not real tributes. Not the ones the Capitol would adore and fawn over and cry for when they died. They were prisoners. Captives. Animals. Nothing more.

Adelia shook her head. "What you did for your brother, Jediah … that was brave – not stupid. But what your brother did – that was brave, too … in a different way."

"How?"

Adelia hesitated for a moment, but then answered slowly, carefully. "When you volunteered, it wasn't just because you wanted to save his life, or save your family. It was also because you genuinely thought – no, because you _knew_ – that you had a better chance. And maybe … maybe your brother knew it, too. Accepting that – it's not easy. It's not easy to admit that someone else might do better in your place. Not easy to admit that … that you need a little help."

Jediah swallowed hard. That made sense. Just as much sense as what Ivira had said – and it was much more comforting. "Thank you. I … maybe I need a little help, too." He hadn't wanted to admit it, but training alone the previous day had been terrible. He didn't want to face the Games the same way – left by himself, alone.

Adelia nodded. "Maybe we both do. I know I'm probably not an ideal ally, but—"

"You're perfect," Jediah blurted out before realizing what he'd said. "I mean, not _perfect _perfect – not like that – but I think we'd make good allies if – I mean, if that's what you meant."

Adelia giggled a little. "That is what I meant."

"Good. I mean, good that we meant the same thing. I wouldn't want you to think that I meant … something else. Not that you're not – I mean, I'm sure you're attractive – or would be if it weren't for – but that wouldn't be ... I should just stop, shouldn't I."

Adelia was clearly trying not to laugh, but, finally, she couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing, leaning back against the wall, almost doubled over. "I'm sorry," she gasped between laughs, but there was no need to apologize. Soon, the two of them were sitting on the floor of the hallway, their backs against the wall, laughing until their sides were sore.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Carolina poked her head out, confused. "Are you two all right?"

Finally, the pair of them managed to catch their breath. "We're fine," Adelia gasped. "I think … I think we're allies."

Allies. Jediah smiled. That sounded good. Sounded strong. Sounded a lot better than two teenagers giggling in the hallway.

At last, the two of them headed for the elevator. They still had about twenty minutes before the training area would open. Yesterday, he had dreaded going down there – chained and dressed in rags, shaved and barefoot. But Adelia was dressed exactly the same, and it didn't seem to bother her. And if it didn't bother her, why should it bother him?

And at least this time, he wouldn't be alone. He had an ally. Maybe they would find more. He had someone now – someone he could protect, someone who would protect him. Adelia smiled up at him as the elevator came to a halt. And, with that smile, he knew that what she had told Carolina wasn't completely true. They weren't just allies.

They were friends.

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

"May I help you?"

Audra looked up at the trainer, startled. How long had she been standing there, staring at the weapons? She'd spent the first day of training at the survival stations, learning a little of this and a little of that. She'd wandered over to the weapons stations on a whim, curious. She shook her head, and the trainer shrugged and returned to watching the Careers, who clearly already knew what they were doing.

"I'd go with a rapier, myself."

Audra whirled around to face a boy and a girl. "I … I was just looking."

A smile played on the boy's lips. "I noticed."

A part of her wanted to apologize. For intruding, for taking up the trainers' time when she was just going to stand here and watch. But she stopped herself. She had as much right to be here as they did. They were Careers, from the look of them – the boy from Two and the girl from Five. But they didn't seem to be with a pack.

Why were they talking to her?

Audra tried to ignore them as she reached for a blade. They had already noticed her. What did she have to lose? She lifted the blade from its place on the rack, but it was heavier than it looked. It took both hands for her to swing it at the dummy, and, as it struck, the force felt like it might take her arms off. The blade clattered to the floor.

The girl giggled a little, but the boy stepped forward. "You need something lighter." He plucked a thin, sharp blade from the rack, tossed it from one hand to the other, then held it out to her. Audra cocked an eyebrow, but replaced the heavier blade and accepted his choice. It _was _lighter. This time, when she swung, she held on, slicing across the dummy's chest.

The boy nodded. "Not bad. But it's a superficial wound. You need to strike deeper if you want to do any real damage."

If she wanted to do any real damage. Her expression must have given her away, because the boy continued. "Or if you want to make the kill quickly. That first blow – it'll take a dozen of those to finish the job. If you want to make it quick, then you aim for the neck. The heart. A major artery."

Audra blinked. "Why are you helping me?"

"We're here to make you an offer. To ask you to join our alliance."

"Me?" Audra knew she was staring, but she couldn't help it. These were Careers. Trained killers. And they wanted _her_ as an ally? It took a moment for her to ask the obvious question. "Why me?"

"The other two Career alliances … weren't for us. We're forming our own."

Probably better not to pry into Career internal politics, to ask _why _the other two groups weren't a good fit. "And you … what? Ran out of Careers?"

"Something like that."

"But why me? There are dozens of tributes you could ask."

"And we're planning to. Not dozens, of course, but we have our eyes on a few others. But we decided to come to you first."

"Why?"

"The others are already a group of three. If we come to them with a smaller group, it'll look like we're trying to join theirs. If we come with a larger group, it'll look like we want them to join ours. So we decided it would be best if we ask them three-on-three. And we decided you were the most likely to accept the offer."

"Or you thought I _wouldn't _accept if you came to me with a large, already-formed group. Maybe you figured then I'd feel like a last-minute addition, an add-on to the group. But if you come to me first, I feel like a real member."

The boy shrugged. "You caught me." He turned to go.

"Wait!" Audra called. The boy turned with a smile. Audra took a deep breath.

"That wasn't a 'no.'"

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He couldn't help laughing.

Thane continued chuckling as the girl from Seven – the girl who had introduced herself as Audra – continued. "I know it sounds a bit … bizarre. But, please, listen to what he has to say."

Thane was about to object. To point out that joining with the Careers was a bad idea, regardless of what they said. Outer-district tributes who joined the Career pack didn't tend to last long. But, before he could, Delvin spoke up. "We're listening."

Septimus, the boy from Two, nodded. "Thank you. Do you know how Career packs originated?"

Thane shrugged. "Can't say I do. A bunch of teenagers got together and decided it would be fun to train to kill other kids?"

"I'm not talking about Career training," Septimus corrected. "The concept of a group of tributes forming an alliance during the Games – Do you know where that came from?" When his question met only silence, he answered it himself. "Groups of tributes – packs, if you will – didn't originally come together to hunt down other tributes, or even to take on each other. The first packs came together for protection. Stronger tributes began to realize they would last longer if they banded together.

"Most early packs were small – maybe three or four tributes – but, during the Ninth Games, a group of six formed. A group built not on bloodlust, but on trust and mutual protection. Do you know what happened to them?"

He didn't. "I don't know, but I do know at least five of them died."

"All six of them, actually," Septimus admitted. "But not quickly. They were able to protect each other for a long time. Four of them made it to the final six."

"But none made it home," Thane reasoned. "So who cares?"

"The strategy was sound; it was the execution that was flawed. The group was built on a foundation that could not stand; its two core members were a pair of rebels, a brother and sister who could never have left the arena – and they dragged their alliance down with them." He shook his head. "We won't have that problem."

"We wouldn't need it; we'd have other ones," Thane pointed out. "This isn't the Ninth Games. It's the 42nd. I'd wager there weren't many Careers back then."

"Not many, no."

"Well, now there are – besides you two, I mean. There are two other packs, and I'd like to avoid their attention, if I can."

Septimus smirked. "Why do you think Liana and I are proposing an alliance to a group of outer-district tributes? That's exactly what we want, too – to go unnoticed, to be underestimated. The other Careers know I've never been to the academy. And few of them take District Five seriously. We're just a few more tributes to them – just like you. They'll be too worried about each other to give us much thought." He shook his head. "We want the same thing."

Which was, of course, the problem. They _did_ want the same thing. They both wanted to go home. But they couldn't both get what they wanted.

Then again, he had told himself the same thing about Sariya. He had said the same thing about Delvin. Why should these three be any different? Adding a few more tributes to their alliance – stronger tributes, well-prepared tributes – didn't change the basic plan at all. He didn't trust Septimus – that much was certain – but he didn't exactly trust Delvin, either. He didn't even really trust Sariya, his own district partner.

How much worse could these three be?

Thane glanced at Sariya, and then Delvin. They were both looking at him. When had he been elected leader? But he'd been the most vocal, the one questioning Septimus' idea. If he agreed, the others would probably follow. If he didn't…

If he didn't, then instead of three new allies, he would have three new enemies. Enemies who had apparently thought highly enough of him and his allies to consider enlisting them. Which meant if they refused, instead, they could find themselves at the top of Septimus' list of tributes to target.

That didn't leave much of a choice.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

"Why would they want help from the Careers?"

Melody glanced up at Louis, one of the boys from Eight, who had joined her at the fire-building station a few minutes ago. He was watching her district partners, Thane and Sariya, who had apparently joined up with two of the Careers, along with one of the boys from Six and a girl from Seven.

Melody shrugged. It was none of her business, really. They were her district partners, of course, but she didn't know anything about them – not really.

But she ventured a guess, anyway. "Maybe they figured those two weren't accepted into the main pack, so they're … not as dangerous? More trustworthy? I don't know."

Louis shook his head. "Seems to me like it would be the other way around. If _I _were in charge of a Career alliance, I'd _want _the people I could trust near me, even if they weren't quite as good, and I'd say no to the dangerous ones." He shrugged casually. "I guess that's why I'm not in charge of a Career alliance."

Melody smiled a little. It sounded almost like something her twin brother Arren would have said. "What about your other district partner – Myrah, right?" Louis asked. "What's she like?"

Melody shrugged. "She's okay, I guess. But we decided on the train that an alliance wouldn't really … work. I'm not used to…" _Girls_, she almost said. And that would have been the truth. She'd grown up with her father and four brothers. All her closest friends were boys. She had barely known what to say to Myrah. There had been no connection, no common ground.

But with Louis…

"What about your district partners?" she asked, changing the subject. "What are they like?"

"I don't really know," Louis shrugged, standing up suddenly. "I should go."

Melody watched him leave, startled. Had she said something wrong? Were his district partners a touchy subject for some reason? From the way he'd been talking, she had thought he might have come over to propose an alliance.

What had she done wrong?

"It's not you," came a voice from behind her. One of Louis' district partners – one of the other boys from Eight – took a seat beside her. "He's been doing that all day. Starting conversations, asking questions – then leaving as soon as the other person starts to ask the same things. He's trying to gather information."

Gathering information. But she hadn't told him anything – not really. Just that she wasn't in an alliance with Myrah, and Thane and Sariya were with the Careers. But he could have figured that out just by watching. "There's more than that," she said quietly. "More than information. He wants us to remember him."

"Remember him?"

"Yeah. Think about it. If you're in the arena, and you have a choice of who to hunt, are you going to go after someone you've never met, never talked to – or the kid you talked to that one day during training, the one whose name you actually know, the one who knows _your _name, knows a little about you?" She shook her head. "I'd go after the stranger – every time."

"Huh." The boy picked up a few sticks and started to build his own fire. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Me, neither – not until just now." She hesitated. "But why did _you _come over? Why tell me what he was doing?"

"I just didn't want you to think … well, to think that there was something wrong with you. Or with what you were doing, or what you'd said to him. You're doing fine."

"Am I? I thought he wanted to be my ally, but…"

"I don't think he wants _anyone _as an ally," the boy pointed out. "But if he did, I'm sure he'd want you."

"What about you? Would _you _want to be my ally?"

"Sure. You figured out what he was really doing, how he could use it as an advantage. That's exactly what I'd want in an ally."

"And you helped me, when you had no reason to," Melody reasoned. "That's what _I'd _want in an ally."

The boy smiled a little and held out his hand. "I'm Baylor."

"Melody." She shook it.

It felt good.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

He wished he could help them all.

Evander was trying to focus on the knots he was supposed to be tying, but it was no use. There was too much going on. Too many other tributes. Some hard at work, some wandering around aimlessly, waiting for some direction. Some help.

He wished he could give it to them.

So he had done the next best thing. The night after the reaping, on the train, he hadn't been able to sleep. So he'd stayed up and memorized the tributes' names and faces. All forty-five of them – forty-six if he counted himself. He couldn't help all of them. He couldn't get to know all of them. But he could know their names. He could know each of them as more than just a district number, even if he knew nothing else.

The shaved heads had thrown him at first. Made them look more alike. Which was probably the point – to make them look the same. To lump them all together into one group. The replacements. The ones who were only here because of the rebels the year before. It was sick. It was wrong.

But he couldn't deny that it was effective.

If they had meant to frighten the tributes into submission, to crush any ideas of rebelling in the arena, to quell any lingering doubts that the Capitol had total, absolute control … they had succeeded. The entire atmosphere in the training area was tense. Maybe it was always like this. Maybe this was simply what the Games did to people. Or maybe this year was worse.

He wished there was something he could do.

The three younger tributes from Eleven – Elani, Philus, and Pan – sat at a nearby station, huddled together. Elizabet and Fallon were at the edible insects station, giggling and whispering. Melody and Baylor had built a small fire. A few stations over, Myrah and Nadine were working around Aleron, who had settled into a hammock in the middle of the shelter-building station and refused to budge. Evander had tried to convince Aleron to join him at a few of the stations, but Aleron simply sat there, reading from a small notebook.

Evander wanted to help him. Them. All of them. But, in the back of his mind, he could still hear Miriam's words from the train. _That's the wrong reason to want allies._ Because, in the end, he wouldn't be able to help them. He would have to help himself, instead. He would have to choose his own life over the lives of his allies, if he wanted to make it out alive.

"Mind if we join you?"

Evander glanced up as a girl and a boy approached. District Eight – both of them. Jediah and … Adelia? Yes, that was right. Evander smiled warmly. "Sure. I'm Evander."

"I'm Adelia," the girl replied. "This is Jediah. And, actually, we weren't just wondering if we could join you at this station. We were wondering if … if you'd like to join us."

"Join you?"

The boy nodded. "Our alliance."

Evander blinked. He'd guessed as much, when they'd wandered over without any explanation, but he hadn't exactly expected them to be quite so forthcoming. "Why me?"

"I've been watching you," Adelia admitted. "Actually, you caught my eye when I was watching the reapings. Asking Avery to be your mentor – that was … kind. You seem like the sort of person we could trust. What do you think?"

Well, at least she was honest. And, if he was being honest, Jediah had caught _his _eye. Volunteering for his older brother – that had been brave. He seemed like the sort of person _Evander _could trust. "I'd be happy to join you." He shook her hand warmly. "Is there anyone else you had your eye on?"

"There is," Adelia nodded. "A few people, in fact. Do you know anything about them?" She gestured towards the shelter-building station.

Evander nodded. "The girls are Myrah and Nadine. They seem … nice?"

"What about the boy?" Jediah asked.

"Aleron. He's one of my district partners. But he didn't seem interested in an alliance – with anyone."

Adelia shrugged. "Well, let's see if we can change his mind."

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

He didn't need their help.

Aleron watched the five of them from his hammock, pretending to read his diary. It didn't take the girl form Nine – Myrah – long to agree to an alliance. Nadine nodded along, not committing, but not arguing, either. Just then, the bell rang for lunch. As the group of them turned to go, Evander and the girl from Eight – Adelia – lingered by his hammock. "Aleron?" Evander asked. "Would you like to join us?"

Aleron ignored him. If he ignored him, maybe he would go away. Part of him kept hoping that was true about the whole thing – that if he ignored it long enough, it would go away. That it would change. That the rags and collar would be gone, that his hair would be back, that he would be back home in District Three and this would all be a bad dream.

But it was the second day now. He hadn't woken up. No one had come to save him. He would have to save himself, instead.

But he didn't need their help to do that.

"What're you reading?" the girl asked.

"My diary," Aleron mumbled, hoping she would go away.

Instead, she plopped down next to the hammock. "Neat. What's in it?"

"My plan for the arena," Aleron lied.

"Must be a good plan."

Aleron grinned. "The best."

"Want to tell me a little about it?"

Aleron shrugged. "Well, I don't think I should share my plan with anyone who's not my _ally_."

"Ah," Adelia nodded. "And what sort of allies are you looking for?"

He hadn't been looking, actually. He hadn't thought he would need any. He had hoped to be home by now. Hoped someone would come and tell him this had all been a mistake. But no one had. Did that mean he would need allies, after all?

"I'm looking for a group," he said vaguely. "A group that can take on the Careers."

"There are a lot of Careers," Adelia pointed out.

"And a lot of tributes who aren't."

"Good point. You know, there are five of us right now. If we had one more, we'd be the same size as the largest Career group."

Aleron perked up. "And you think we could fight them then?"

Adelia shrugged. "Not right away. But eventually, yes. In order to win … eventually the Careers have to go. So I say let them take care of each other during the bloodbath – let them fight it out – and wait to see who's left."

Aleron nodded. Not a bad idea. "And then?"

"And then we see what happens. If we're in a position to take them out … we take it."

Aleron grinned. "Sounds like my kind of allies."

Adelia smiled warmly. "We'd be happy to have you."

"You would?" Of course they would. Who _wouldn't _want to be his ally? Aleron slid out of his hammock, grinning up at Adelia and Evander. "Great! Let's get some lunch."

The three of them headed to the cafeteria, where they quickly found Jediah, Myrah, and Nadine. Six of them. Six bald-headed, raggedy-clothed, bare-footed tributes eating lunch together.

One of the biggest groups in the room.

Numbers weren't everything, of course. But numbers were important. Six of them could defend themselves better than two or three. Six of them could mount an attack that would be impossible with smaller numbers. Six of them could work harder, survive longer.

But only one of them could win.

Aleron picked at his food. Maybe this was better than being alone. But, in a way, it was worse. Because having allies made it real. He was really here, in the Capitol, making allies – allies for a fight to the death. A fight only one of them could survive. Only one of them would make it out – and that person had to be willing to fight. Willing to kill even his allies in order to survive.

And it was going to be him.

* * *

**Nadine Olliston, 14  
****District Six**

She couldn't help watching them.

Nadine fought back a twinge of guilt as she glanced over at Paget, Cordelia, Presley, and Alexi. They were watching her. Maybe wondering what she was doing – why she was here, with another group of tributes.

Another group that wanted her as an ally.

She hadn't meant to end up in another group. She had simply been working with Myrah. Waiting for a chance to ask if Myrah wanted to join _her _group. But then Adelia had come and asked them to join _her_, and Myrah had said yes before Nadine could object, before she could mention that she was already in a _different _alliance.

Now she would have to choose.

Nadine sat silently next to Myrah, who was chatting with Evander. Adelia, Jediah, and Aleron were discussing strategy – which stations they should go to next, whether they should split up and try to learn more that way. After all, a large group of tributes – even a large group of non-Careers – moving form station to station was sure to attract attention.

Nadine nodded along. That made sense. A lot more sense than Paget's strategy. The four of them – Paget, Cordelia, Presley, and Alexi – had stayed together the whole time, wandering from station to station. None of them were exactly large or threatening, but they had been getting attention. And Paget either hadn't noticed or didn't care.

Nadine swallowed hard. She _liked _this group. She and Myrah had hit it off right away at the shelter-building station. She was nice. She was friendly enough. She had been welcoming.

And, most importantly, she was _normal_.

Myrah wasn't a criminal. She wasn't a witch. She wasn't a murderer. She hadn't burned down an orphanage or set fire to the district square. She was just a kid. The sort of person Nadine would have expected to meet at school, or out on the streets in the district, just going about her life.

And maybe that was it. Myrah didn't seem like someone she would find in a death match. She was just a kid. Just a kid who wanted to go home.

Just like Nadine.

And the others – they were friendly. They were smiling. They seemed less like allies in a fight to the death and more like a group of ordinary teenagers eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. Barely noticing that all six of them were wearing rags and iron collars, not caring that their heads had been shaved and their feet were bare.

All six of them. Nadine looked around, surprised it had taken her this long to notice. All six of them were 'replacement' tributes. Extras. Was that why Adelia had chosen them? Had she noticed something?

Or was she simply being kind? Maybe she was simply offering an alliance to people who she knew would have difficulty finding one. Who wanted to ally with two little fourteen-year-old girls when there were older, stronger tributes to choose from? Maybe she had simply been drawn to people who looked like they needed help.

Or maybe it was intentional.

Maybe it didn't matter. Either way, Adelia had surrounded herself with people like her. Normal, everyday people who didn't deserve one bit of what was happening to them. People who didn't deserve to be treated like animals and humiliated in front of all of Panem. People who just wanted to go home.

People like her.

Nadine couldn't shake that thought. The idea that _these _people were more like her than her own district partners. Part of her felt guilty for that. She had always loved District Six. She had always felt at home there. But her district partners – they weren't like her. Not most of them, at least. This group – they were different. She could smile with them. She could talk with them.

Maybe she could even trust them.

Trust. As much as she'd wanted to, she had never really trusted any of her district partners. But these five … maybe. Maybe she could trust them. And that made all the difference.

She had made her choice.

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge. It's in there right now, struggling. It's digging its way through the thick hide of the cocoon. Now, I could help it."_


	23. Training: Free

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's our next batch of tributes and the end of the second day of training.

* * *

**Training Day Two – Evening  
****Free**

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18  
****District Four**

"Is this spot free?"

Jarlan smiled as the other boy – the older boy from Eleven – looked up, surprised. He was sitting alone, as he had been the day before, silently watching the other tributes from a table in the corner. He nodded slightly, and Jarlan took a seat across from him. "I'm Jarlan."

"Shale," the boy answered. "Not quite what you were expecting, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

Shale gestured around the room. "The Games. The glory, the excitement, the thrill. It must be a bit different than what you were expecting."

Jarlan smiled a little. "A bit," he admitted. "But I'm not in it for the glory. Never was. Training was never about the chance for excitement – that's not what I wanted."

Shale cocked an eyebrow. "Then what do you want?"

"Freedom."

Shale chuckled wryly. "If that's what you wanted, you should have stayed home."

"Should I?" Jarlan leaned forward a little. "There's nothing for me back home. My mother died when I was little. My father abandoned me at the community home – and took his own life not long after. Most kids like me end up working in the shipyards. It's hard work – with very little pay – and there's no way out. No escape from a life of poverty and hard labor. That's where I would be, too, but the trainers … they noticed my potential. They offered me a chance at something better."

"Something better," Shale repeated, shaking his head. "You think this is better?"

"Yes. What sort of life would I have back in District Four?"

"A long one," Shale offered.

"Long and meaningless."

"So you'd rather risk it all for … what? The chance to kill other people who never did anything to you?"

"Other people who would die, anyway," Jarlan pointed out. "Look around you. Most of the people in this room – they're going to die. But that's true no matter what you and I do. Whether they're killed by you, or me, or someone else – what's the difference?"

The boy nodded a little, so Jarlan decided to venture a little farther. "After all, you volunteered for this, too. You're not here because you want to kill, but you know you'll have to – and you can live with that, because that's what it takes to get home. You volunteered to fight, to kill, so that your brother wouldn't have to."

Shale met his gaze. "Because I knew he wouldn't. My parents … they died five years ago. The seven of us – we've managed to stay together, to protect each other, to keep each other going. Asher and Raver … They're always taking care of the younger ones while Karinth and I are in the fields. Always smiling, cracking jokes, still not taking anything seriously." He shook his head. "I couldn't let him … He wouldn't have lasted a day. Not with so many people he would want to protect. People he would get close to without even meaning to. He wouldn't be able to let go – to realize that they would have to die. He couldn't…"

"But you can," Jarlan agreed. "You have what it takes." He smiled a little. "We could use someone like you, Shale."

"We?"

"My alliance. There are four of us right now – Imalia, Mavina, Zachary, and myself." He gestured to the other table, where his allies were sitting. "We'd love to have you."

"Why?"

"Because you understand what has to be done. When the time comes, you won't hesitate. You won't have second thoughts. You won't regret what you have to do – because you have too much to lose."

Shale eyed him curiously. "I'll need to think about it."

Jarlan nodded. "Take as much time as you need. The offer will stand."

"How long?"

Jarlan shrugged. "Well, if we step off our pedestals at the cornucopia and you come running at me with a sword … I guess I'll take that as a 'no.'"

Shale almost smiled. "I guess so."

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

She was trapped.

Sariya glanced around the table at her allies, wondering what she'd gotten herself into. She hadn't meant to end up in such a large alliance, with two Careers and three other tributes, all of whom were older and stronger than her. But after Thane had said yes, she hadn't had a good reason to say no. Not without revealing the truth – that she had been lying to them about … well, about pretty much everything.

Sariya took a deep breath. She would just have to keep up the act. But for how long? How long before they realized she wasn't as strong, as hardened, as ruthless, as she was pretending to be? How long before they saw her for what she truly was?

But were the others really any better? Any stronger? They seemed confident, but was that also an act? Were they just as frightened, just as nervous, as she was?

Finally, the six of them finished their lunch and made their way back to the training stations. Septimus and Liana headed for the swords station, Delvin and Thane for the spears. Sariya followed Audra as the older girl headed for a station with axes and hatchets.

"You don't need to be nervous," Audra said reassuringly, picking up a hatchet. "They don't expect you to be a weapons expert or a ruthless killer. They knew what sort of tributes they were asking."

"You didn't seem to have any … reservations … about joining them," Sariya noted. Audra had been the first to accept Septimus and Liana's offer. "Why? What makes you think you can trust them?"

Audra shook her head. "I'm not sure. Maybe it's something my mentor said on the train. Hazel said that everyone was afraid. _Even the Careers? _I asked, and Casper said, _Especially the Careers_. He said they were more afraid than any of us – afraid that all those years, all that training, was all for nothing." She shook her head. "Hearing that … it made them seem more human, somehow. As if, deep down, they're more like us than any of us would like to admit."

"Maybe. But they still trained – trained to kill people. People like us. How can we trust them?"

"We can't," Audra admitted. "It's not about trust. Look at us. Do you think Thane trusts you? Do you think Liana trusts Septimus? Do you think I trust Delvin? None of us can _trust _each other. Not really. Not for long. But that doesn't mean we can't work together – for a while, at least."

For a while. But for how long? She was the youngest in the group. How long before the others decided she wasn't doing enough, wasn't pulling her own weight? If they were in a fight, did they really expect her to be able to hold her own?

Sariya picked up a hatchet and swung, burying it deep in a dummy's chest. Trying to imagine that it was a tribute, instead. Trying to imagine the chest moving up and down, blood flowing as she drew her hatchet out.

The thought made her sick.

Sariya gripped the hatchet tightly. She couldn't do this. She couldn't keep pretending, every minute of every day. She wasn't what they thought she was. She couldn't…

Sariya swung again. And again. She could. She would. She had to. She didn't have a choice – not anymore. She had gotten herself into this mess, and now she would have to find a way out of it. She would have to pretend. Not forever – just a little longer. And then a little more. One bit at a time. She could do this.

She could.

Sariya glanced over at Audra, who was watching her while swinging her own hatchet. She seemed so calm. So sure of herself. But maybe she was right. Maybe they were all afraid. Maybe they were all telling themselves the same thing – to hold on, just a little longer.

She just had to hold on a little longer than they could.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She hadn't expected to feel so free.

Indira flashed a smile at Beckett as the two of them headed back to the weapons stations. They'd spent the first day at the various survival stations, picking up as much as they could. But they had both known that, eventually, they would have to learn how to fight.

She hadn't expected to enjoy it.

Indira turned a machete over in her hands, getting a good grip before starting to hack away at a dummy. It felt good to let out some energy, to be _doing _something, rather than sitting around tying knots or sorting plants.

"Not bad," one of the trainers remarked after a while. "But real tributes aren't going to just stand there and let you hit them."

Indira cringed. She'd been trying to ignore that – the fact that, in the arena, she wouldn't be facing dummies, but real, living people. Hacking away at a dummy was easy. Trying to imagine doing that to a real person … that was different. But she forced a smile as the trainer took a step forward and asked, "Care to try your luck against a real person?"

Before she had a chance to respond, the trainer swung a blunted blade. She managed to block the first blow, but the second swept her legs out from under her. The trainer held his blade to her throat. "Sloppy. Try again."

Indira scrambled to her feet, her weapon ready once more. This time, she attacked. The trainer blocked her blow, then swung. Indira dodged the blow, then blocked the second. But the third came too fast, and she toppled to the floor again. "Damn it," she muttered as she got to her feet again.

The next time, she managed to block a few blows before the trainer circled behind her, meaning to knock her legs out from under her again. But, just as he did, another blade blocked his. Indira turned, expecting to see Beckett, but the blade belonged to a different boy. He swung at the trainer, who blocked the blow easily, motioning for Indira to join the fight.

Together, the two of them managed to hold their own for a while, first defending, then attacking. The trainer danced back and forth, blocking their blows, keeping them off-guard, not tiring for a moment. Finally, he managed to knock the blade from Indira's hand. Without anyone to help him, the other boy was quickly overpowered, as well.

Indira lay beside him on the mat for a moment, catching her breath. The trainer took a step towards them. "All right. What have we learned?"

"That it's a good thing your blade isn't sharp," Indira offered, breathing hard.

The other boy struggled to his feet. "That there's strength in numbers."

"Well, that, too," Indira agreed, slowly standing up. "I'm Indira."

"Shale."

Beckett stepped in. "Shale. Didn't I see you earlier with one of the Careers?"

Shale nodded. "Jarlan. He offered to let me join his alliance."

Beckett whistled. "And you said no?"

"I said I'd think about it."

Beckett shook his head in disbelief. "I don't think anyone's going to make you a better offer than that."

Shale shook his head. "Depends on what you mean by a 'better offer.'"

Indira smiled. "Well, for whatever it's worth, you're welcome to join us. After that little fight there … I think we make a good team." She was almost surprised by how much she meant it. She hadn't been looking for allies – not really. She had assumed that she and Beckett were on their own. But she and Shale _had _fought well together. Maybe…

"I'll think about it," Shale nodded, placing his blade back on the rack. "Good to meet you, Indira." He turned and headed off to the survival stations.

Beckett shook his head. "You think that was a good idea?"

Indira shrugged. "Why not?"

"What makes you think we can trust him?"

Indira smirked. "What makes you think you can trust me?" Beckett cocked an eyebrow. Indira chuckled. "I'm just kidding. But, seriously, the guy volunteered to save his brother. How bad can he be?"

Beckett shook his head. "I hope you're right."

Indira smiled. "I hope so, too."

* * *

**Mavina Perrot, 17  
****District Four**

"He's free to make his own choice."

Mavina nodded as Jarlan led their group over to the shelter-building station. After nearly two whole days, they were still only a group of four. Both Septimus and Liana had rejected their offer, and now seemed to be forming their own alliance. Jarlan had spoken to the boy from Eleven during lunch, but they'd seen him at the weapons station later with a pair of tributes from Ten.

"Maybe we should offer to let all three of them join us," Imalia suggested. "Shale and the two from Ten. That'd bring us up to seven."

"And nearly half of them outer-district tributes with no experience," Zach pointed out. "I don't mind taking on one or two if you really think they'll be useful, but if we take in too many tributes who don't know what they're doing, they'll slow us down."

Imalia shrugged. "Would that be better or worse than having none of them?"

Zach thought it over for a moment. "Maybe you're right. If the other Career alliance decides to target us first, it might be helpful to have a few more people – whether they're experienced or no."

"Extra bodies." Jarlan shook his head. "You want to use them as cannon fodder."

Zach shifted uncomfortably. "I wouldn't put it like that, but … yeah. Why not? If there are more of us, there are more people for them to target."

Imalia shook her head. "The other Careers aren't stupid. Who do you think they'll go after first – us or a couple of untrained tributes from Ten and Eleven? Even if we manage to recruit a few more tributes, _we'll _be their target – not the others."

"There's nothing we can really do about that, though," Jarlan pointed out. "We were bound to be their first targets the moment we decided not to join them. So the big question – regardless of whether we have more allies or not – is whether we're going to try to take them on immediately, or whether we should try to avoid them."

Mavina shook her head, speaking up at last. "You think we should run?"

"Not run, necessarily," Imalia offered. "Just not fight them right away. Now, eventually, we'll have to face them – but if we wait, maybe we can do it on our terms, when _we're _ready. If we let them take the cornucopia, if we manage to get out of there with some supplies and weapons, we can bide our time, wait for the right moment to attack them – rather than trying to do it with all the chaos during the bloodbath."

Jarlan nodded. "Imalia's right. There are four of us. Six of them. Simple numbers. We should wait until the odds are more even."

Mavina nodded. That made sense. But, somehow, it felt wrong. They were Careers. They weren't supposed to run away from a fight. It wasn't that she _wanted _to take on the other Career group – some of them were their own district partners, after all. It just felt like that was what the Gamemakers – and the audience – would _expect _them to do. How would they react if one of their Career groups just turned tail and ran?

Zach seemed to be on the same page. "What's the audience going to think if we just run away? Won't they start to favor the other group?"

"They're already going to," Jarlan pointed out. "After what happened last year, they're naturally going to favor Districts One and Two over Four. But you knew that when you joined us. They may have the audience's support initially, but audience support isn't everything. We play it smart, we take the opportunity to attack them when we get it, and the audience will eventually support us. They may be more attractive right now, but we're in this for the long haul. When the time comes, we'll have the support we need."

Mavina nodded. He sounded so sure. So confident. Despite everything that had happened so far – the extra tributes, the embarrassing chariot rides, their humiliating outfits – nothing seemed to faze Jarlan at all. He just kept going, certain, constant.

She wished she had his confidence.

* * *

**Pan Soya, 12  
****District Eleven**

He would never be free again.

Pan tucked his knees to his chest as he, Philus, and Elani watched the trainer at the first-aid station. She was demonstrating how to splint a broken bone, but Pan wasn't paying much attention. Generally, if a tribute had a broken arm or leg, it was only a matter of time before they were found by another tribute and quickly killed.

Elani and Philus, on the other hand, were eager to try anything and everything for themselves. Soon, each of them was practicing splinting one of his legs. The trainer watched, clearly pleased with their work, as they wrapped bandages and tied knots.

Pan fought back the tears in his eyes as Elani and Philus finished. Silently, he clenched his fists. It was the second day of training. He shouldn't be crying. He shouldn't be feeling sorry for himself. He should be working, learning, training, trying to gather as much information as he could before they ran out of time.

But he couldn't help it. One tear leaked out, then another. Soon, he was sobbing. Elani and Philus were at his side in an instant, their arms around him. "It's okay," Elani was whispering, just as she had at the reaping. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

But it wasn't. It _wasn't _okay. And it _wouldn't _be okay. On the train, he had started to think that maybe it was. Or maybe it would be – after a little training, a little practice. But the chariot rides, his hair, these rags, the collar that was scraping his neck – he was going to die the same way his father and sister had. Chained and bound, unable to do anything to help himself or his allies.

His allies. His allies who hadn't had to endure what he had. It wasn't fair to blame them, of course. It wasn't their fault. But they were sitting there, wearing normal clothes, with normal hair and normal shoes, while he looked like a beggar. A prisoner.

"It isn't okay," he whispered between sobs. "It isn't fair. I can't … this … it isn't … why me?" he gasped, fighting to form complete sentences.

Quickly, expertly, the trainer removed the splints on Pan's legs. "You're right," she said softly. "It's not fair. I've been here, helping train tributes, since the First Games, and I've never seen anything like this." She laid a gentle hand on Pan's shoulder. "But that's exactly why you can't give up."

Pan shook his hand off. "Don't! I'm tired of being babied! I'm tired of people telling me I have a chance. I _don't_!" People were staring, but he didn't care. "You said you've been here since the First Games. In all that time, how many twelve-year-olds have won?"

"One," the trainer admitted.

"One," Pan repeated. "Just one. And there are forty-six tributes this year. _Forty-six_. And _this _and _this_—" He gestured at his collar, and the rags that hung around his body. "Do you _really _think I have a chance? Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly believe I have a chance."

The trainer looked away for a moment, but, slowly, looked up again, turning her warm brown eyes on Pan. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

Pan nodded quietly. It wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. But, in a way, maybe it was. Finally, someone was being honest. Finally, someone was admitting what he had known all along: He was going to die.

Pan felt a gentle tapping on his shoulder. Philus. The boy pointed to himself, then tapped his head twice. "What is it?" Elani asked, speaking slowly. "You … you have an idea?"

Philus nodded, then pointed to one of the knives the trainer had been using to cut bandages. Cautiously, the trainer handed it to him. Philus, in turn, handed it to Elaine. Then he pointed to Pan's shaved head, ruffled his own hair, and pointed back to Pan. Elaine cocked her head, confused.

"You want me to … cut your hair?"

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

He had never felt so free.

Philus smiled as Elani knelt beside him, slicing off clumps of hair. She was careful, her fingers quick and her touch gentle, but, even so, the cut came out awkward and patchy. But the look on Pan's face made it worth every second.

When Elani had finished, she handed the knife to Philus and ruffled her own hair. Philus nodded and went to work. At first, his hands were shaking, but, slowly, he got his bearings. His cuts became surer, closer to Elani's scalp. When he finished, he handed the knife back to the trainer, who turned to Elani and said something Philus couldn't make out. Elani gestured towards Philus. The trainer turned to face him and repeated the question. _Do you want me to straighten it out?_

Philus shook his head. If they were going to look ridiculous, they were going to look ridiculous together. Philus glanced around at the tributes who had gathered to watch them. _So much for not drawing attention._

But it was worth it. Nothing they had done had made them look like a threat. If anything, they seemed to have had the opposite effect. The looks they were getting were looks of pity, of compassion. After a moment of watching them, even Shale gave them a small smile and a barely concealed thumbs-up before heading back to the weapons stations.

Philus ran his hand over the stubble on his scalp. It felt good. His hair had never been particularly long, but this – this was a choice. A choice he had made, on his own, for a friend.

And that made all the difference.

Philus and Elani were grinning as the trainer resumed her lesson. Even Pan seemed more engaged, finally trying a few of the simpler techniques himself. Philus quickly lost himself in his work, copying every move the trainer made. Splints and slings. Bandages and tourniquets. The three of them tried the simpler methods out on each other, the harder ones on lifelike dummies.

For hours, they had no company – or perhaps no competition, depending on how he looked at it. First aid probably wasn't the most popular station to begin with, when tributes could be learning to swing a sword or an axe, or how to start a fire or make a snare. But, all in all, he would rather know how to save a life than how to take one.

Which was probably the wrong attitude to have. But what did it matter, in the end? How much was he really going to learn about weapons in three days? How good of a snare could he really be expected to build after a few hours' worth of practice? But this – this had come naturally from the start. It was simple. It was calming.

It was almost fun.

And if he was going to die – if these were going to be his last few days _ever_ – then this was how he wanted to spend them. With his friends. Learning how to save their lives.

He almost didn't notice when Elani started shaking his shoulder, motioning towards the door. The tributes were filing out of the training area, heading back to their floors. Was training over already? Philus turned to Elani, scribbling on his notepad. _Can we come back here tomorrow?_

Elani quickly agreed, and Pan nodded along. A few guards were moving towards them – the last to leave – but, as quickly as he could, Philus scrawled a message on his pad and handed it to the trainer. _What's your name?_

The trainer smiled warmly, as if no one had ever bothered to ask her that before. Quickly, she wrote something on the pad, then handed it back. Philus glanced at it quickly as the guards ushered them out of the training area. _Greta. _It was a little thing, but it was important.

Now he knew who to thank.

* * *

**Elani Ingram, 14  
****District Eleven**

"At least you made the choice freely."

Elani glanced up at Tamsin as the four of them sat down to dinner. That wasn't the answer she had expected. "So you're not…?" _Upset? Disappointed? Going to yell at us? _"…mad?" Elani finished.

Tamsin shook her head. "Mad? No. Not about this. Now, if you had picked a fight with the Careers, nearly gotten killed, and had your heads shaved as punishment, _then_ I might be mad. But this? This was brave, even if it was a bit … impulsive."

Elani nodded. "It just seemed like the right thing to do."

"And it probably was." Tamsin smiled a little as she dished out meat from some sort of bird Elani had never tasted before. "And you won't always have the luxury of doing the right thing, so maybe it's best to take those chances when they come." She poured a glass of wine for herself and juice for the three tributes. Elani glanced around at the Avoxes standing in the corners, ready to help. But, as she had the night before, Tamsin had insisted on serving the tributes herself.

Tamsin continued. "A mentor a lot wiser than me once said, _Generous deed should not be checked by cold counsel_, and, in this case, I stand by his words. What you did was good. There may be repercussions later, but I doubt it. President Grisom is not President Snow. He can tell the difference between actions motivated by rebellion and actions motivated by friendship, even if they may look the same to an outside eye."

"Rebellion?" Elani's voice was shaking. She'd never even considered that Philus' idea might be interpreted that way. "We just wanted to—"

"To make Pan feel better. It's a good thing you three were chosen for this year's Games, not last year's." She shook her head. "But that's not important right now. You've attracted attention – maybe attention you didn't mean to attract – but it's the right sort of attention. Right now, there are twenty-two 'replacement' tributes who will genuinely appreciate what you did. You took their side, made yourselves like them when you didn't have to. That's a rare thing, and you can use it."

"How?"

"There will always be tributes – Careers, mostly – who will kill even the youngest and most defenseless of tributes without a second thought. Nothing you can do will make any sort of headway with them. But if you run into someone else in the arena – someone who saw what you did today and remembers it – they might spare you out of pity, or at least hesitate long enough for you to get away … or to attack."

Elani held her tongue. That sounded wrong – taking advantage of someone's compassion like that. But Tamsin was right. _You won't always have the luxury of doing the right thing._ Elani nodded. "All right. What about the audience? What will they think of … what we did?"

"They'll be split," Tamsin admitted. "Half will be confused. Why would anyone willingly degrade themselves in front of all of Panem? But the other half – they'll respect what you did. Even if they don't see you as legitimate contenders, you'll have their sympathy. And sympathy can be a powerful thing."

Elani glanced at Philus, who nodded. Sympathy was what had made them act as they had in the first place. Sympathy for Pan, a boy they had only met a matter of days ago. In that moment, she knew, she would have done anything to help him. To protect him. To make him feel a little better – if only for a moment. Clearly, Philus had felt the same. And if they felt this strongly about protecting him now…

Elani turned her attention back to her food. It was too late to back out now, whatever their friendship might end up costing her in the arena. She had made a choice, and she would stand by it – no matter what.

No matter the cost.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

"Offers like that don't come free."

Shale nodded quietly, waiting for Elijah to elaborate. A part of him was still reluctant to ask for his mentor's advice. But that was what mentors were for. And he was under no obligation to do as Elijah said. But getting a sense of perspective from someone who had actually won the Games – that was useful. Both Jarlan and Indira had seemed genuine in their offers. And neither of them was someone he wanted to say no to without a good deal of thought.

"I was in the same position as you during my Games," Elijah said at last. "Three groups of tributes – including the Careers – asked me to join them. I gave it a lot of thought – just like you – but, eventually, I said yes to the Careers."

"Why?"

Elijah smiled wryly. "Actually, it was because my mentor suggested it. But, to be honest, the decision never sat well with me. It felt like what _she_ would have done, rather than what _I _should do. But I stuck with it because I figured it was my best chance. Careers had won the last three Games. Those sounded like good odds."

"But when the Games began … I began to doubt my decision. I made it through the bloodbath without a single kill, which didn't seem to sit well with my allies. Whether they actually thought I was useless, or whether I was just being paranoid … I don't know. I probably never will. Because that night, while I was on guard, I packed a bag of supplies and ran – and never looked back. I was on my own for the rest of the Games."

"Seems to have worked out all right for you," Shale pointed out.

Elijah nodded. "It did. And that's the point. I don't know what would have happened if I'd stayed with the Careers – or if I'd decided to join either of the other two groups that offered me an alliance. Maybe I would have won. Maybe I wouldn't have. There's no way to know in advance. And it's the same for you. I'm not Ivy. And you're not me. Do what you think is best, but do it because it's what _you _think you should do, not because it's what _I _would do. Whatever you do, do it for yourself – not for any of them, and not for me."

Shale turned his attention back to his food. _Do it for yourself_. Ever since his parents' death, everything he had done had been for his younger brothers. He couldn't remember the last time he had done something simply because _he _wanted to, because it was what _he _felt like doing.

But, by helping himself, he was also helping them. The only way for him to help them now was to survive. To go back home. And he had to decide which group could help him do that.

The Careers were stronger, certainly. More capable. But that was a problem as much as it was an asset. How long would it be before they saw him as a burden rather than an ally? If he joined them, would he end up simply running off, as Elijah had, out of fear that his allies would turn on him?

Indira and Beckett, on the other hand – they certainly seemed more trustworthy. With them, he would be an equal. But it would be a group of three rather than a group of five. They would have a disadvantage in numbers as well as in training.

On the other hand, they also presented less of a target. The two Career groups would almost certainly target each other first. If he joined Jarlan and the other Careers, he could find himself in the middle of a quarrel he had no stake in. Indira and Beckett were less of a threat – and therefore less of a target.

Shale's gaze drifted to his district partners, chatting with Tamsin at the other end of the room. In the long run, none of them stood much of a chance, but, for now, he envied the simplicity of their alliance. They had met. Become friends. Become allies. Simple. But he couldn't afford that sort of simplicity.

Not if he wanted to survive.

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge. It's in there right now, struggling. It's digging its way through the thick hide of the cocoon. Now, I could help it, take my knife, gently widen the opening, and the moth would be free."_


	24. Training: Weak

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's the first half of Day Three of training, and our next batch of tributes.

* * *

**Training Day Three – Morning  
****Weak**

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

"I just don't want them to think we're weak."

Baylor glanced up at Kit, who said nothing, but nodded as Baylor continued. "There are only two of us, and … well, so many of the other groups are bigger. I'm just … not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. No one seems to be paying attention to us."

Kit cocked an eyebrow, confused. Baylor shook his head. "It's not like I expected them all to be staring at me or anything. I just…" Carolina's words still echoed in his mind. _People notice. They notice everything. Everyone's watching you. Everyone. They're going to see everything. So make it count. _"I just feel like I haven't _done _anything noticeable yet."

When that got only a blank look, as well, Baylor continued. "I don't mean that I haven't done _anything_. I just feel like I haven't given them a reason to think I'm … special. Anything other than a little boy from District Eight. You know what I mean?"

Kit nodded, laid a hand on Baylor's shoulder, then pointed to his own chest. Baylor nodded a little. Just two years ago, Kit had been the one sitting here, the small, skinny boy from Eight who no one had bothered to pay attention to. He'd scored a two in training. His allies had been just as young, just as weak. No one had thought they stood a chance.

Until the Games began.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Kit and his allies had been able to use the arena – an old, abandoned library – to their advantage. Fictional armies and monsters shielded them from both Careers and other, stronger tributes until only three of them remained.

And, even then, Kit hadn't really stood out – not to most people. Throughout the Games, the announcers had referred to the three young tributes as a group. A team. There had been nothing that made Kit stand out above the other two.

Except that maybe he was the most frightened. Frightened up to kill both of his allies in a moment of panic.

Baylor looked away, trying to imagine himself in the same position. Trying to imagine watching Melody, soundly asleep. Trying to imagine taking a knife and…

Only when Kit laid a hand his shoulder did Baylor realize he was shaking. "I'm sorry," Baylor said quietly. "I'm just … I'm just so scared."

Kit wrapped his arms around Baylor, who returned the gesture without a second thought. "Good," came a voice from the doorway. "If it's the third day of training and you're still not scared, you're doing something wrong."

Baylor looked up, surprised, to see Lander standing there, watching them. "Were you scared?" Baylor asked quietly. Lander and Carolina's Games were so long ago, he had a hard time imagining either of them as a frightened young tribute.

But Lander simply nodded. "Sure was. Everyone is. And that's good. Fear is good. Without fear, you'd rush right into the bloodbath, grab a weapon, and try to take on the Careers. Without fear, you'd run right into a trap instead of thinking through what the other tributes are doing. Without fear, you'd try to befriend a pair of lion mutts instead of running away from them."

"But—"

Lander shook his head, holding up a hand. "There's an exception to everything. Fear works both ways. It can keep you alive, but it can also keep you from taking advantage of a situation that might work in your favor. The trick is to be afraid of the right things. Kit wasn't afraid of the armies and monsters in the library because he realized the truth – that they were under the Gamemakers' control." He took a seat beside the two of them. "And you _don't _want to be afraid of the Gamemakers."

Baylor shook his head, confused. "What?"

Lander smiled a little. "Do you know how Carolina lost her eye?"

"Another tribute tore it out."

Lander nodded. "Do you know why?"

"Why?" Baylor shook his head. "No, I don't."

Lander smirked. "Ask her sometime."

* * *

**Cordelia Astier, 15  
****District Six**

Their alliance was getting weaker.

Cordelia watched, silent, as Nadine took a place beside Delvin at one end of the breakfast table. At the other end of the table, Cordelia, Paget, Presley, and Alexi sat together, with Nicodemus between the two groups. Paget was drumming his fingers, clearly upset. Cordelia watched Nadine and Delvin silently. They hadn't allied with each other, but it felt almost as if they had joined forces against the rest of them.

What had she done wrong?

She'd tried to be friendly. Tried to strike up discussions with the other members of the group, even though what she really wanted to do was run away and hide. Maybe she should have been used to it by now – people not wanting to associate themselves with her – but she had begun to hope that maybe … maybe this group, these people, would be different.

But maybe they weren't. Maybe they were just like everyone else. Alexi seemed more and more uncomfortable around them, and even Presley was watching the two groups from the other side of the table, as if trying to decide which one she truly wanted to side with. The only one she was really sure of was Paget.

And maybe that was better. She hadn't really expected anything else at the start. She had assumed that she and Paget would be alone in the arena. And maybe it would be better that way. Maybe it would be better if the others left them.

Maybe some people were just meant to be alone.

Finally, Cordelia got up and headed out into the hallway. Training wouldn't start for another half hour or so, but she needed to get out. Away from the tension. Away from their stares.

She just wanted to be alone.

Silently, Cordelia sank to the floor, her back against the wall. She tucked her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, blocking it out. Blocking out everything. The Games. The Capitol. Her district partners.

Maybe even her brother.

After a few minutes, however, Cordelia felt a hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, expecting Paget. But the hand belonged to Nicodemus. "If you want to be alone, that's fine," her mentor assured her. "I spent more time alone during my Games than I did with other tributes. There's nothing wrong with that. But if you want to talk … that's fine, too, Cordelia."

Cordelia swallowed hard. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Wrong?" Nicodemus gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "What makes you think you're doing anything wrong?"

Cordelia shook her head. "Nadine left our alliance. Alexi doesn't really want to be there. Even Presley … I don't know what she's thinking."

Nicodemus nodded. "Fair enough. I would say something is definitely wrong with the alliance. But what makes you think it's you?"

"I … it has to be either me or Paget. And this whole alliance was his idea. They all said yes at the start – and they said yes to _him_. Maybe they just don't want to be in an alliance with _me_."

Nicodemus was silent for a moment. "Do you want them as allies?"

"What?"

"If your brother weren't here – if it was just you in the Games – would you still want them as allies? Are they people you would have picked? Or did you just go along with it because Paget thought it was a good idea?"

"I…" Cordelia looked away. "If I were alone, I don't think I would have picked anyone. I don't think I would have wanted allies at all."

Nicodemus nodded. "Then what's the problem?"

"The problem?"

"If you wouldn't want them as allies, anyway, then who cares whether they want you or not?"

"Paget wants them as allies."

"So let Paget worry about that. You've got enough to worry about." He gave her shoulder another squeeze. "Eventually, Cordelia, you might have to make a choice."

"A choice?"

"I hope you don't – honestly, I do. I hope that you're never in the position, but … you might have to choose between your life or your brother's."

Cordelia shook her head. "And if I can't choose?"

"Then the Games choose for you."

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

He already felt like the weak link.

Beckett watched from the edge of the sword station as Indira and Shale stood back to back, defending each other as the trainer struck again and again with a blunted blade, trying to catch them off guard. They moved so naturally together. They made such a perfect team.

What if they decided they didn't need him anymore?

Beckett clenched his fists. It wasn't that he minded having another ally – not really. Everyone knew that there was strength in numbers, at least to some extent. What really annoyed him was that Indira hadn't asked him first. She'd simply extended an offer to Shale, assuming Beckett would be okay with it if Shale accepted.

When Shale accepted. Shale had turned down an offer from the Careers to join them, instead. Did that make them the Careers' next targets – after they went after each other?

But what if that was a good thing?

There were two groups of Careers, after all – three if he counted the pack that the boy from Two and the girl from Five had formed. By the time one Career group or another came out on top, how many of them would be left? Two? Three?

Enough for the three of them to take on together?

Beckett reached for a sword, still watching Shale and Indira. They were defending each other fairly well. And two was a good number for that – for defense. They could watch each other's backs, keep each other safe.

But three…

Beckett fingered the sword for a moment, but then charged into the fight. The trainer saw him coming and turned to meet his charge head-on. But, as he did, Indira struck a blow from behind – a blow the trainer barely had time to dodge while still countering Beckett's. The trainer smiled a little as the three of them advanced – steadily but clumsily – until they had backed him into a corner. "That's more like it," he nodded. "What you were doing before – that was protection. _This _is a fight."

But, just as Beckett raised his sword to strike again, he felt something ram into the back of his legs. A blunted blade knocked him to the floor, and he looked up, startled, into the face of a second trainer. The first trainer smiled as he and his fellow trainer quickly disarmed Shale and Indira, as well. "And what have we learned?"

Beckett slowly climbed to his feet. "Don't get so focused on one enemy that you forget about the others."

The trainer nodded. "Good. What else?"

"Numbers aren't everything," Shale offered. "There were three of us and only two of you, but you beat us easily."

"Defending isn't everything, but neither is attacking," Indira added. "You need to do both."

"Right, right, and right," the trainer agreed. "What does that tell you?" When he received only silence, he answered his own question. "That there are different lessons to be learned from any given situation. Different ways of seeing it. Different perspectives. And that's _good_. Two heads are better than one – and three are better than two – but only if you use _all _of them. It's going to take everything all three of you have learned if even one of you wants to survive."

_One of you_. But only one of them _could _survive, in the end. Maybe three heads _were _better than two, but, in the end, those other two heads were competition. How many times had the Games come down to a group of allies?

Usually it was the Careers – hunting the other tributes down until only a few, if any, remained, and then turning on each other. Jasper. Harriet. Bierce. All had been forced to turn on their allies, in the end. But non-Careers weren't exempt. Kit had done the same thing only two years ago, when the Games were down to the three of them and he had no other choice.

Beckett glanced at Indira and Shale, trying to imagine himself in that situation. Trying to imagine the three of them sitting alone in the arena for three days, as Kit and his allies had, not wanting to turn on each other.

He had a feeling his allies wouldn't be so generous.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

She wasn't used to feeling weak.

Imalia clenched her fists as she followed Jarlan over to where Shale, Indira, and Beckett were practicing at the sword station. Zach and Mavina were hanging back, but she had insisted on joining Jarlan. It had been her idea, after all – inviting all three of them into the pack instead of just Shale. She should see it through.

But she was starting to like it less and less.

Not because she didn't want them as allies – not particularly. She'd been watching them at the weapons stations since they'd arrived this morning. All three were fairly strong and capable. They were still untrained, of course. Unskilled. But that wasn't their fault. If they'd had access to the training she had…

But they hadn't. She'd been fortunate enough to be born in District Four, where training for the Games had been an appealing alternative to the drudgery of her family's fishing business. When Kalpyso had taken her aside four years ago and said she had potential, Imalia had been grateful for the opportunity.

Now, watching these three, she saw the same potential. The same drive. They were learning – and learning well. If they'd had three years to practice instead of three days, they might be among the strongest contenders.

But they hadn't. They wouldn't. This was the last day of training. They weren't ready. Not really. But they were strong enough – and determined enough – to be valuable allies. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was having to ask them.

If Shale had accepted their first offer and then asked that the other two be brought in, as well, that would have been one thing. But he had said no – or, at least, it certainly seemed like he had. Now it would look like they were desperate – desperate enough to take his two allies into their group, as well, if it meant having enough people to take on the other Career pack.

Careers weren't supposed to look desperate.

Then again, nothing else so far had gone the way it was 'supposed to.' The chariot outfits, the ridiculous clothes they were wearing, their collars, their hair – none of that was _supposed _to happen. But, once they were in the Games, none of it would matter.

And neither would this. If the three of them accepted now, it wouldn't really matter – once they were in the Games – who had been the first to extend the offer. And if they said no, then it really wouldn't matter one way or the other. Other tributes would notice, of course, that they had been rejected, but the four of them had already been labeled the weaker of the two Career groups.

What did they have to lose?

Imalia slowly unclenched her fists as she and Jarlan approached the other group. Shale, Indira, and Beckett immediately stopped sparring with the trainer and formed a group facing Jarlan and Imalia. Beckett took a step forward. He didn't say anything, but his expression did. _What do you want?_

Jarlan was undeterred. "We just wanted to let you know that you're still welcome to join us – all three of you."

Indira cocked an eyebrow. "All three of us?"

Beckett crossed his arms. "What's the catch?"

Jarlan shook his head. "No catch. It's an honest offer. We'd be the biggest group in the arena. We want—"

Beckett shook his head. "This isn't about being the biggest group in the arena. You don't want all of us; you want Shale. But you're willing to let the two of us tag along in order to get him."

Imalia was about to object, but thought better of it. He wasn't wrong. If it weren't for their interest in Shale, they probably wouldn't have given Indira and Beckett much thought. But now…

"Think what you want to," Jarlan shrugged. "The offer stands." With that, he and Imalia turned to go.

She just hoped they hadn't made a big mistake.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

They didn't think she was weak.

Myrah smiled a little as she settled down with Adelia at the knot-tying station. The six of them had spent the morning – and most of the previous afternoon – flitting from station to station in pairs, learning as much as they could. Every hour or two, they would switch up who was partnered with whom, so that they could get to know each other's capabilities individually.

And none of them had complained about being paired with her.

Crispin had tried to warn her that it might be difficult finding allies. She was one of the younger tributes, after all. Her own district partners, Sariya and Thane, had avoided her since the train ride. Melody was nice enough, but she hadn't seemed interested in an alliance. She had been starting to worry that she wouldn't find anyone who wanted her.

But then Nadine had come along, and everything had fallen into place. With this group, she didn't feel like "one of the younger tributes" anymore. They treated her like an equal. They were all friendly, in their own way. But not an overbearing kind of friendly. For the most part, they didn't ask questions. They didn't pry. They were just there. They were just … nice.

They didn't deserve this.

Not that anyone in the room did – not really. But her alliance … they were different. All six of them were 'replacement' tributes. All six of them could have been safe – _would _have been safe – if last year's tributes had only played by the rules. They didn't deserve to be here. They didn't deserve what was about to happen.

_What was about to happen._ Myrah gripped the rope a little tighter. It was getting closer and closer – the arena. This was the last day of training. Tomorrow, they would have their private sessions with the Gamemakers. Then interviews the next day.

And then the Games.

"Are you all right?"

Myrah looked up. Adelia was sitting beside her, her knot an almost perfect replica of the trainer's. Myrah's was still frustratingly loose. Myrah shook her head. She didn't want to sound frightened. Weak. "I'm fine."

Adelia nodded a little. "As fine as any of us can be, I suppose. It's weird, isn't it – how much more real it seems now. How close it all is. Just one last day of training, and then … that's it. No more practice. Then the Games really begin."

Myrah looked away. "Maybe. But, really, if you think about it, the Games started a while ago. So much has happened already that's going to affect how they play out. All these alliances, all this training – it makes things in the Games very different."

Adelia picked up another rope and started a new knot. "I wonder whose idea this was."

"The Games?"

"No – the idea of letting us train first. When someone suggested pitting kids from the districts against each other in a fight to the death, was there someone who spoke up and said, "Sure, let's do that – but let's train them a little bit first'? What's the point? Sure, I know how to tie a few knots now. But what are the chances – the _real _chances – that this is actually going to save my life in the Games? Why pretend to want to give us an advantage?"

Myrah shrugged. "Maybe they like the anticipation. The idea of making us wait. Taking us from our homes, our families, making us kill each other – yeah, that hurts. But the worst part is, we can't just get it over with. They have to drag it out, make it a celebration, make sure we all pretend we're enjoying ourselves. That's worse … and there's not a thing we can do about it. Especially this year."

"Especially this year," Adelia agreed. Myrah nodded. This year. The chariots. Their clothes. Their hair. There wasn't a thing they could do about any of it – because any sign of resistance could have repercussions for their families back home.

And she wasn't about to let them die for her.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

Maybe she wasn't so weak, after all.

Ivira smiled a little as the bell rang for lunch. She, Gadget, Calantha, and Domingo had spent the morning drifting from one survival station to another. But everywhere they went, it seemed, they ran into Adelia and one of her allies. And never, it seemed, the same one twice. She was spending a little time with each of the bald-headed, raggedy-clothed tributes she'd decided to surround herself with.

And Ivira was beginning to wonder which of them had the right idea.

Her own strategy had seemed straightforward enough. The Gamemakers were showing preference to the tributes who weren't 'replacements.' It only made sense that the special treatment would continue once they were actually in the Games. There was nothing she could do about her own status, of course, but she had been certain to surround herself with the right tributes. Gadget, Calantha, Domingo – people she could mold. People she could use.

Adelia, on the other hand, had taken the opposite approach. None of her allies were ones the Capitol would favor. What was she hoping to gain by choosing the five of them as her allies? Had she noticed something Ivira hadn't? Had she picked up on something?

Or was she simply soft?

Probably the second one, Ivira reasoned as the tributes slowly gathered in groups for lunch. She probably just felt sorry for them. Probably just wanted to be with people who were like herself.

Probably.

Ivira dug her fork into a slice of turkey. It would eat at her, she knew, until the Games began. Until she had some sort of proof that she was right.

But that would come soon enough. She would have her proof. She was right. Her district partners – Adelia and Jediah, at least – were wrong. It was that simple.

Gadget was wrong, too, of course – in her own way. Wrong about what had brought their alliance together. Gadget was convinced it was simply fate that everything had worked out perfectly. But it had never been fate.

It had been her. The whole time. Waiting until the right tribute caught Gadget's eye, then drawing attention to them. People who wouldn't be able to say no. People who would be useful, but people who wouldn't get attached – or, at least, who would pretend not to.

Then there was Louis, who had been wandering from station to station the past couple days, learning as much as he could about the other tributes. He was wrong, too, if he thought that was really going to help him in the Games. For a while, it might – but not for long. He might not be the other tributes' first target. But, sooner or later, everyone was a target. Everyone. Even the friendly little boy who would sit down and talk with anyone. After a few days of hunger and thirst and sleep deprivation, the other tributes would be more than ready to attack him, regardless of anything they'd said to each other during training.

And then there was Baylor. Her last little district partner had teamed up with one of the girls from Nine. The girl was a year older than him, which wasn't a bad move, but she didn't seem like a killer.

Then again, neither did Baylor. So they were probably a good match for each other. And at least they'd had the sense not to draw any unwanted attention by forming a larger group. Despite their efforts to split up and not be noticed, Adelia's alliance was drawing attention.

So was her own, of course. Mostly thanks to Gadget, who seemed incapable of being quiet for more than a few seconds. But if putting up with her incessant yammering was the price for having the taller, burlier girl as an ally, then it was a price she was willing to pay. After all, it wasn't as if she would have to put up with her forever.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**Alexi Merista, 16  
****District Six**

He wished he didn't feel so weak.

Alexi picked at his food as he and his allies sat down for lunch. Without meaning to, he glanced over at Nadine, sitting a few tables away with her new allies. They were smiling. Occasionally laughing. Alexi shook his head. Part of him wished Nadine would come back to their group.

But the other part wished he could go join her.

She hadn't asked. Hadn't told anyone she was leaving their alliance. She had just gotten up and done it. Maybe it was selfish. They'd made an agreement, after all, on the train. They'd agreed to be allies. To work together, to help each other.

But she seemed so happy.

Well, maybe not _happy_. No one – except maybe the Careers – seemed _happy_ that they were almost done with training. Almost ready for the Games. But Nadine seemed more … content, maybe. Less out of place. Part of him wanted to join her.

But they hadn't asked him.

Nadine had only left their group because she'd gotten another offer. If he left now – with only half a day of training left – he had nowhere else to go. None of the other alliances seemed to be looking for another member. There were still a few tributes sitting by themselves – a boy and a girl from Three, a girl from Seven, one of the younger boys from Eight – but none of them seemed to want allies.

Maybe he could try to join Nadine's alliance. But they already had six tributes. Would they really want any more? And what if they said no?

Of course, that was the worst they could do: say no. But, if they did, then where would he be? If he tried to leave and was rejected, would Paget, Cordelia, and Presley take him back? Probably. But would they still trust him? Or would he simply become their first target, once they knew that he didn't really want to be there?

Because the simple fact was that he didn't. Not any more. An alliance – _any _alliance – had seemed like a good idea at the start. And Alexi had always prided himself on being able to get along with anyone. Be friends with _anyone_.

And the worst part was that none of the other three had really done anything _wrong. _They weren't _terrible _allies. But they were all younger than him. And none of them seemed particularly interested in him. Paget was too sullen. Cordelia was too timid. And Presley … He still wasn't quite sure what to make of her. He wasn't sure he _wanted _to know. Maybe they weren't the _worst _allies he could ask for, but they certainly weren't the best.

But they were all he had.

Alexi glanced over at Nadine's alliance again. Would they really be any better? Sure, they looked happier now, but, once they were in the Games, was it really going to matter which group would make him _happier_? No. No, the point of having allies was to stay alive.

And, out of the six of them from District Six, Delvin seemed to have the right idea on that front. His group included two Careers, a girl from Seven, and a pair from Nine. All older, all stronger, than either Nadine's group or Alexi's.

Alexi's group, on the other hand, was all younger than him.

And maybe that shouldn't have bothered him, but, now that he thought about it, it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Delvin's allies were stronger than most of the non-Careers in the room. Alexi's allies were a pair of fifteen-year-olds and a little thirteen-year-old. Even Nadine's alliance, based on sheer numbers, could probably beat his in a fight to the death.

And, unfortunately, this _was _a fight to the death.

But it was too late now. Too late to change his mind. They'd made a deal – a pact – and he had no choice but to stick to it.

He just hoped it wouldn't end up getting him killed.

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge. It's in there right now, struggling. It's digging its way through the thick hide of the cocoon. Now, I could help it, take my knife, gently widen the opening, and the moth would be free. But it would be too weak to survive."_


	25. Training: Strengthening

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll if you haven't already, now that we've made it through all the training chapters and you have some idea of the tributes' capabilities and alliances. (A new poll will be up with the next chapter.)

Speaking of alliances, they've been updated on the website now that pretty much everything is officially in place. And speaking of the website, I know the links on people's profiles - mine included - aren't working, so I went ahead and put the url next to each of the sites. (You'll have to take out the spaces, but they should work if you copy and paste them.) Hopefully, FF will get its collective act together and fix everybody's profiles soon.

Also, if anyone reading this has found a way to get the links on their profile to actually work, please let me know.

That having been said, here's the second part of Day Three of training, and our last batch of tributes.

* * *

**Training Day Three – Evening  
****Strengthening**

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15  
****District Three**

He was stronger on his own.

Horatio glanced around at the groups of tributes that filled the lunchroom. So many groups to keep track of. So many people to worry about.

But the only one he really had to worry about was himself.

For three days, he'd been watching, waiting, thinking that perhaps some sort of alliance would present itself. But it hadn't. No one had asked him. Maybe no one thought he was worth the trouble, or maybe they could see that, when it came down to it, he simply didn't want allies.

And he didn't – not really. He and Percival had discussed the matter several times, and he'd come to the conclusion that he would work better alone. That simple fact didn't make his chances any better or worse. Tribute with allies had won the Games, but just as many Victors hadn't had a single ally, or had lost theirs fairly early on.

Percival himself had lost track of his surviving allies in the bloodbath. Miriam hadn't had a single ally during her Games. Both had managed to make it out alive.

Maybe he could, too.

Horatio clenched his fork tighter. There was another reason – maybe the _real _reason – he didn't want allies. Even if he had managed to find someone he could work with, someone he could trust, someone who could benefit him and would benefit in return … eventually, he would lose them. Or they would lose him. They couldn't both win – him and this theoretical ally he might have had. So perhaps it was better – for both of them – that the alliance was never made.

Because he didn't want to lose anyone. But he also didn't want anyone else to lose him – anyone more than the people who had to.

Horatio picked at his food, trying not to think about that. But it was the third day of training. Every hour brought the Games a little bit closer. And he wasn't ready.

He wasn't ready to die.

He wasn't kidding himself; death was a very real possibility. And it was one that seemed more likely with each passing day. There were so many tributes. So many tributes who were older and stronger than him. Two groups of Careers – or three, depending on whether or not Septimus and Liana's group counted. Several other large groups of older, stronger tributes. A few smaller groups, a few loners like himself.

What chance did he really have?

Horatio shook his head and pushed his plate away. It wasn't fair. As he looked around the room, so many of the other tributes were smiling. A few were even laughing. Didn't they realize that this couldn't last forever?

Didn't they realize that most of them would be dead soon?

And maybe they were right – maybe it was better to forget, if only for a little while. But what good would it do them, in the end? Maybe they could forget for today, or tonight, or even the next night. But once they were in the Games, what good were these few moments of happiness going to do? What help would they be – to them or to the people they loved?

What was the point of any of it?

Horatio got up and headed back for the training stations. There was a part of him – a growing part – that wished he was already in the arena. Then they could put away the masks. The charades. The constant pretending that everything was going to be all right.

It wasn't all right. It would never be all right again. And maybe it would be better if everyone could just admit that.

But they couldn't. Not most of them. They were so set on holding onto anything concrete, anything normal, any small part of their lives. But, in a few days, that wouldn't help them. Their denial wouldn't help them. All their memories of home and the warm wishes from their loved ones wouldn't do them one bit of good once they were actually in the arena.

He wished they were already there.

* * *

**India Telle, 17  
****District Three**

She was stronger on her own.

India clenched her jaw tighter as she plunged a dagger into one of the dummies. All around her, alliances were practicing together. The Careers. The _other _Careers. The _other _group that was pretending to be Careers. The idiots from Ten and Eleven who had _turned down _the Careers. So many groups. It was almost suffocating.

Almost.

Her one comfort was that no one had tried to force _her _into one of their cozy little alliances. No one had even asked. Maybe they could tell – whether consciously or not – that she wasn't interested. She didn't want to work with them. She didn't want to get to know them.

Not when she might have to kill them.

That was all she could see, as she looked around the room. People she might have to kill. The three little tributes from District Eleven, still glued to the first aid station. If she came across them in the arena, she didn't _want _to think of them as people she had seen during training, people she almost admired because of the way the older two had treated the younger boy. She didn't _want _to admire them. She didn't want to _like _them.

Not when they would have to die.

Even her own district partners – Horatio, Evander, Aleron. If she ran into them in the arena, it wouldn't matter that they were district partners. They would be trying to kill her. She would be trying to kill them. It was that simple.

Wasn't it?

That was how the Games worked, after all. All but one of them had to die. So what was the point of sparing someone because of district loyalty or an alliance that could only be temporary? What was the point of pretending to be friends? Right now, she didn't _need _friends.

She just needed to focus.

The dagger in her hand, the hatchet and sickle she'd practiced with the day before, whatever weapons she managed to find in the arena – those were the only friends she needed now. The only friends who would actually be useful. Anyone else would just be a waste of time.

And she'd wasted enough of her time already.

No. No, that wasn't quite right. It had never been her choice – the time that had been wasted. Her _family _had wasted enough of her time. But now they didn't matter. And, if she somehow managed to make it home, a Victor … then they would never matter again. She could forget that life completely, as she had dreamed of so often.

This was what she'd always wanted, after all – to get away from them. And, as strange as it was, as much as she'd never quite pictured it like this … now she was about as far away from them as she could get.

India turned her dagger on the next dummy. Maybe this wasn't quite how she'd ever pictured it – gaining her freedom, her independence. But the fact remained that now she had it, nonetheless. Her family, her parents, her siblings – they didn't matter here.

So why couldn't she stop thinking of them?

India sliced her dagger across the dummy's stomach, but, this time, she wasn't picturing one of the other tributes. This time, the face that came to her mind was her own brother's. It was Pierce's face. Always so kind and gentle. One of the few people who had genuinely cared for her. Who cared for everyone – without seeming to ask anything in return.

Almost like Evander.

India sliced harder. She'd done her best to avoid him ever since the reaping – ever since he'd asked Avery to be his mentor. Because the truth was that he _did _remind her of her brother. And she couldn't afford to start thinking like that – about either of them. She couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now.

Not when the Games were so close.

* * *

**Ciere Renole, 17  
****District Seven**

She would look stronger alone.

Ciere settled back down at the fire-starting station, watching as the other tributes scrambled frantically back and forth, trying to cram as much as they could into these last few hours. Trying to learn a little bit more, practice a little bit more, do whatever they could to convince themselves that they were ready. And that was the difference – the _real _difference – between her and the rest of them.

She actually _was _ready.

She'd spent the last three days pretending. Pretending to be interested in everything that was going on. She'd swung a few weapons, tied a few knots, set a few snares. But she'd always gravitated back to this one station. There was something soothing, something almost mesmerizing, about the fact that simply rubbing enough wood together quickly enough could create a spark. Then a flame. Then a fire.

It almost felt right.

Ciere turned the sticks over in her hands, starting in on yet another fire. It had been so long, it seemed, since anything had truly caught her interest so fully. Since anything had felt so natural, so right. Strange, that she would find something here, of all places. Something that she actually enjoyed.

But she was still ready.

She was ready for it to be over. Ready to stop pretending. Just a few more nights. Just a few more hours in front of the cameras. Just a few more things left to do.

The first thing was to get a good training score. Not that it mattered, in the long run, but she wanted to do well for her family's sake. Get a high enough score to give them hope, enough to make them think that she hadn't given up. But not too high. Not high enough to give them _false _hope. Hope that she might actually come home.

That was the first thing. Interviews were the second. She would have three minutes to say the perfect goodbye. Three minutes to assure her parents, her friends, that it wasn't their fault, that she was going to try her hardest to come back to them.

Three minutes to lie.

And then the Games. That was the third thing she had to do. The last thing she would ever have to do.

She would have to die.

And she would. Maybe not right away – maybe not during the bloodbath. She didn't want her family to think she was doing it on purpose. She needed to seem like she wanted to live – long enough to convince them. But, sooner or later, when death came, she would be ready.

Which gave her an advantage – a wonderful advantage – over the other forty-five tributes in the room. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid of what was coming – what was inevitably coming for all but one of them. She was prepared. She was ready.

In fact, she was getting a little impatient.

There was a part of her that wished she was already in the Games. Wished it was already over with. All this preparation, all this pretending … Maybe it was useful for the other tributes, but it was draining her.

At least no one had asked her for an alliance. Had she made it that obvious that she didn't want one? Not that there was anything wrong with the other tributes – not really. But if she was going to die – and she was – then why put anyone else through the burden of getting to know her, of grieving when they lost her, when she never had any intention of surviving?

No. No, it was better – kinder, even – that she was alone.

And it wouldn't last much longer.

She just had to be patient. Just a few more days. Just a few more days, and it would all be over.

It would finally be over.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

They were stronger together.

Elizabet smiled a little as she and Fallon headed back to the edible plants station one last time. They'd visited several other stations over the last three days, but the plants station was still her favorite – and not just because of the free snacks. If she was being honest, it was more comfortable to think about learning how to keep herself alive, rather than learning how to kill.

But she kept those thoughts to herself. She couldn't afford to look weak – even around her ally. She trusted Fallon, but they both knew that alliances only worked as long as both tributes were getting something out of it. As long as they both thought they were getting some sort of help, some sort of protection.

And how could she offer protection if she didn't want to think about killing?

Elizabet stuffed a few berries in her mouth, trying not to think about it. She would much rather play the Games the way Glenn had – by hiding, keeping herself alive, and just waiting for the other tributes to kill each other. Part of her knew she couldn't spend the _whole _Games doing that. Eventually, she and Fallon would have to fight. Eventually, they would have to kill.

But it didn't have to be right away.

If they could spend a few days getting their bearings – finding a way to survive, a way to keep each other alive – before they had to worry about fighting and killing other tributes … maybe that would be better. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe after a few days in the arena, she would be ready to fight. Ready to kill.

Maybe.

"I'm not ready," Fallon said at last, quietly. Elizabet looked up, surprised. She'd been thinking the same thing, of course, but it was strange to hear someone else say it. To hear that someone else was just as frightened, just as unprepared, as she was – it was almost comforting.

Elizabet nodded. "I know. I'm not ready, either, but … I guess it doesn't really matter, does it. I mean, the Games are going to happen whether we're ready or not."

Fallon swallowed hard. "I know. It's just … I thought it would help – all this training. We get three days to practice pretty much anything we want. You'd think that would make us feel a bit readier, at least. But, instead, I … I think it's worse. All I've learned – all I _really _know now – is how much I _don't _know. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah," Elizabet admitted. "Yeah, it does." They'd spent the last three days at the various survival stations, but had only wandered over to the weapons stations once or twice. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they would get to it sometime later. But now it was 'later,' and neither of them had suggested that maybe they should learn a bit about weapons, instead.

Maybe Fallon was thinking the same thing Elizabet was. Maybe she didn't want to think about killing, either. Maybe she would rather focus on survival.

"Have you decided what you're showing the Gamemakers tomorrow?" Elizabet asked, trying to change the subject.

Fallon shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just figured I'd come up with something…"

"…later," Elizabet finished with a smile. "Me, too. Glenn said that scores don't really matter much, anyway. He got a two."

Fallon nodded. "Hazel got a four. But she was only twelve."

"Presley got a four, too," Elizabet pointed out. "And she was fifteen, just like us."

_Just like us_. Elizabet was old enough to remember a little of Presley's Games. She hadn't had any allies – just two lion mutts who stayed at her side until the finale. And she'd been fifteen when she'd won, just like Glenn. Just like Elizabet. Maybe fifteen was a good age for tributes from Ten.

Maybe she had a chance, after all.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

They would be stronger together.

Barry flashed Eleanor a smile as the two of them put the finishing touches on a shelter just as the bell sounded, signaling the end of the day's training time. The end of _all _their training time, actually. Three days. Sometimes, it didn't seem like they'd had long enough.

Other times, he'd found himself wishing that it would just be over. That they could just get on with it – one way or the other. If they were going to be fighting each other to the death, why couldn't they just _fight _already?

Part of him knew that was a stupid, childish thing to wish for. Because the sooner the Games began, the sooner he would be fighting for his life. The sooner he would be killing. The sooner he could be dead.

And he didn't want to be dead. No one did. But waiting – waiting to find out what the arena was going to be like, waiting to find out whether or not he had what it took, waiting, waiting, waiting – that was worse.

Barry shook the thought from his head as he, Eleanor, and a handful of other tributes piled into the elevator. One after another, the others got out, leaving Barry and Eleanor alone. Waiting. Still waiting.

But they wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Brennan greeted them as they stepped out of the elevator. Soon, the three of them were sitting around the generous feast that had been spread at the table. Brennan didn't waste any time. "So, three days of training. Any last-minute alliances I ought to know about?"

Barry shook his head. They'd talked about it – the possibility of joining one of the other alliances, or inviting one or two of the other tributes to join theirs. But they had never quite found the right time, or the right person, or the right group. "No, no other alliances," Barry confirmed. "Is that bad?"

Brennan shrugged. "Not necessarily. It certainly makes things simpler – not having to choose."

Barry nodded. There was something in Brennan's voice. Something he wasn't saying. "But…"

"But you'll have to keep that in mind during the Games, when you're making decisions. There are only two of you, so don't take on any sort of fight you don't think two people can win. Play it smart. You can afford to play it safe for a few days before you have to start taking chances."

_Play it safe_. "You think we should run?"

Brennan cocked an eyebrow. "If you come up against an alliance of four or five tributes? Yes. There's no shame in that. I did a fair amount of running during my own Games. We ran right from the start, in fact – my allies and me."

"You ran from the bloodbath?" He had a hard time picturing that.

"That we did. Didn't get a single shred of supplies from the cornucopia. But we survived. We found a place to rest and a way to ambush tributes who _did _have supplies."

Barry's stomach was starting to turn. "That doesn't seem…" he started, but stopped himself.

"Fair?" Brennan finished. "Of course it's not fair. Nothing about the Games is fair, and any Victor who tells you otherwise is lying. This isn't about playing fair. It's about coming out alive. And to do that, you steal. You cheat. You fight dirty. Because that's what it's going to take to survive." He leaned forward a little. "Can you do that?"

Barry hesitated. "I … I'm not sure."

Brennan smiled a little. "At least you're honest. But I'll tell you this now: You can. And you will. At some point in the Games, you'll be terrified enough, desperate enough, to do anything you can for even the slightest _chance _of living a little longer." He shook his head. "If you'd asked me before my Games, I would have said the same thing, Barry. I wouldn't have thought I was capable of … of what I did. But watching the Games as a mentor – as a Victor – and seeing other tributes become killers … Do you want to know the most important thing I've learned?"

Barry nodded. "What?"

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

"You're stronger than you think you are."

Eleanor glanced up as Brennan continued. "That's the most important thing. You're stronger than you think – but you're also weaker. There will be moments in the Games when everything is clear, when you know exactly what you have to do, and you know – really _know _– that you have what it takes to do it. And there will be moments when you have no idea, when you're frightened and desperate and alone and don't know how you'll ever find the strength to get through.

"But you _have _that strength. There's a part of you that was always that strong. The Games just bring it to the surface. There's a part of you that was always capable – capable of doing more than you ever imagined. Capable of being better – or of being far worse – than you ever thought possible. Everyone has the potential to be strong, or to be weak. We all have those moments – moments that fall into either extreme.

"But, for the most part – even during the Games – you'll be somewhere in the middle. You'll feel the same way you do right now – confused, frightened, but still holding onto hope. And holding onto whatever it is you're trying to get back to. But, even in these moments, there's a part of you that's capable of more. There's a part of you that was _always _capable."

Eleanor nodded a little. She _wanted _to believe it. Wanted to believe that there was a part of her that was ready for what was coming. Or, at least, a part that wasn't completely unprepared.

She had thought she was ready. There was a part of her that had even wanted this – freedom, if only for a little while. But, now that it was here, 'a little while' suddenly seemed so short. And the home she had longed to escape suddenly seemed so familiar, so comforting, and so very far away. And, for the first time, she found herself wanting something she had never thought she would.

She wanted to go home.

But she couldn't. Not yet, at least. The only way to go home now was to win. And the only way to do that…

"So what about the Gamemakers?" Barry asked, abruptly changing the subject to something more practical. "What do we show them tomorrow?"

Brennan did his best to hide a chuckle. "Well, if it's anything like my year, whatever you plan to show them will end up being shot to pieces."

"What do you mean?" Eleanor asked, surprised.

"Our Gamemaker had … an odd sense of humor," Brennan explained. "When we went in for our private sessions, there was a sign that said 'Kill the bunny!'"

"Kill the bunny?" Barry repeated, shocked.

Brennan nodded. "Yes, I thought it was rather strange, too. I asked if that was what they did every year."

"Is it?" Eleanor asked, her stomach turning over at the thought.

Brennan shook his head. "No. It was a first – and, as far as I know, a last. Helius Florum retired that year, and, from what I've gathered from my tributes, his replacements have been a bit more … traditional. But, with everything else that's been different this year, I wouldn't count on that. Be ready for anything."

Eleanor nodded a little, but she was still having a hard time picturing it when Barry asked the obvious question. "Did you kill the bunny?"

"I did. Partly because I wanted a good score, but also because I thought it would be good practice."

"Was it?" Eleanor asked.

"No," Brennan admitted. "Killing an animal and killing a person … They're not the same thing. But, short of asking me to kill another tribute in front of them during private sessions, it was probably the best practice I could have asked for. I was scared. I was shaking. I didn't want to do it. But I did it. Just like in the Games."

Just like in the Games.

* * *

**Louis Soren, 14  
****District Eight**

He wondered if he would be strong enough on his own.

Louis glanced around the table at his district partners, wondering if he'd had the right idea, after all. Everyone else seemed to have an ally or two. Ivira and Gadget had each other and two other tributes. Adelia and Jediah had a group of six. Even Baylor had managed to find an ally…

"So how _did _you lose your eye?"

Baylor's question jolted Louis back to the moment. Carolina looked as startled as anyone else at the table, but, to Louis' surprise, didn't seem offended at all. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said it fell out in the spaghetti one night."

Baylor actually laughed a little at that. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just … well, Lander said I should ask."

Carolina shot Lander a glance. "Did he, now?"

Lander shrugged. "Not exactly the timing I meant. I was telling him that he shouldn't be afraid of the Gamemakers, because—"

Carolina held up her hand. "Way ahead of you." She turned back to the tributes. "You want to hear the story?"

Louis cocked an eyebrow as heads began to nod all around the table. Even Kit seemed to perk up a little as Carolina began. "It was the fifth night of the Games. There were five of us left. I was alone in the jungle, at night. And it was dark – very dark. And then suddenly, in that dark, dense jungle … I heard someone screaming."

"Now, it took me a while to figure out that it actually _was _screaming," Carolina admitted. "It sounded like an animal – a wounded animal, maybe. But, finally, I realized it was a person. Screaming in pain. Agony. And somewhere very close by." She paused for a moment. "Now, tell me what any normal person would have done."

"Run the other way?" Jediah offered.

Lander smirked. "Kid's got a brain. Tell 'em what you did, instead, Care."

Carolina shook her head. "I ran towards the sound. In the dark, in the jungle, with five of us left – probably not the smartest thing I could have done. But I did it, anyway, without even realizing why at the time. When I got close enough, I saw a fire, and two tributes. Two boys. One of them was burning the other one alive. Roasting his body, bit by bit, and feeding it to the little mutts that were hopping and chirping around the campfire.

"Anyone in their right mind would have run. But I'd been in the arena for five days. I _wasn't _in my right mind. I had seen things – done things – that I wouldn't wish on anyone, and I knew, then and there, that I _couldn't _stand there and let anyone be tortured like that.

"And part of me knew that the audience would feel the same. That, if I attacked, they would be on my side. That maybe even the _Gamemakers _would be on my side. One of the boys, Kaji, was the son of a rebel. The other, Alicante, had been systematically torturing tributes throughout the Games – including one of my own allies. Given the choice, I knew the Gamemakers would pick me. And that's a powerful thing.

"So I caught one of the little mutts and I did the only thing I could think of. I threw it at Alicante. I managed to cut Kaji loose before Alicante could pry the mutt off his face. And then I made a choice. I could have run – I may even have had time to kill Kaji quickly, mercifully, and then run off. But I didn't. I chose to stay. I chose to fight.

"Alicante was the better fighter; it didn't take him long before he had me pinned. But he made a mistake. He could have killed me then and there. But, instead, he reached down, and he tore out my eye. He was about to go for the other one when Kaji hit him from behind with a burning branch. Together, the two of us were able to overpower Alicante and tie him to a tree. The mutts did the rest of the work. After he was dead, Kaji asked me to kill him quickly, and … well, I did. I was that much closer to going home – only three tributes left instead of five – and all it cost me was an eye."

All it had cost her. Clearly, it had cost her more than that. But now, more than thirty years later, she could talk about her own Games as if they were nothing more than a story, a distant memory.

He wondered if he would ever be that strong.

* * *

"_You see this little hole? This moth's just about to emerge. It's in there right now, struggling. It's digging its way through the thick hide of the cocoon. Now, I could help it, take my knife, gently widen the opening, and the moth would be free. But it would be too weak to survive. The struggle is nature's way of strengthening it."_


	26. Private Sessions: The Big Picture

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First of all, results of the bloodbath poll are up on the blog. Thank you to everyone who voted.

Second, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which tribute(s) you would sponsor. This poll is a bit different from my other polls in that it actually does have a (little) effect on the Games. The top few tributes in the poll will, at some point during the Games, receive a sponsor gift. (If they happen to be killed in the bloodbath, that gift would then pass to an ally or a district partner.) You can use whatever criteria you want to determine the tribute(s) you pick; this is all about who _you _would sponsor. This poll will be up until the end of the interviews, so if you want to wait and see how the tributes fare there, feel free to do so.

Lastly, a shout-out to BamItsTyler, who has an open SYOT. Check it out, and send some tributes his way!

* * *

**Private Sessions  
****The Big Picture**

* * *

**Tamika Ward  
****Head Gamemaker**

"There has to be a better way to do this."

Tamika paced back and forth as her fellow Gamemakers prepared the room for the tributes' private sessions. Forty-six tributes. Fifteen minutes each – plus time to clean up a bit between each tribute's session. At best, they would be done in a little under twelve hours.

"There _has _to be a better way," Tamika repeated.

Her assistant, Leander, rolled his eyes fondly. "That's exactly what you said last year. And the year before. And—"

"Last year, we had a regular number of tributes," Tamika pointed out. "We have nearly twice as many this year. It'll take twice as long."

Leander shrugged helplessly. "This is how it's done."

"Why?"

Leander looked up, surprised. "What?"

"_Why_? Did the first Gamemakers just sit down and say, 'You know what we really need to do? Even though we've been watching all these tributes for the _past three days_, let's give them some time to bore us to death individually'? Why?"

"Sometimes a tribute has a skill they don't want the others to see—"

"Why? If they're trying not to be noticed by the other tributes, why would they show us now? If they get a high score, the other tributes will know they're hiding _something_. They just won't know what."

Leander shrugged. "All right. It's stupid. It's outdated. What do you want to do about it?"

Tamika hesitated. She knew what she _wanted _to do. What she might have done last year, or the year before, if she hadn't been so worried that President Snow might call for her head.

But she didn't work for President Snow anymore.

"Call President Grisom. Ask him if—" Tamika began, but then shook her head. _You don't need to justify yourself to me. _"No. Don't." She turned to Leander.

"Here's what I want to do."

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18  
****District One**

The room was empty.

Inviticus glanced around the room, confused, as both he and Jaime were led inside. These were supposed to be _private _sessions. He was supposed to do this alone. And the Gamemakers … Where were they? Inviticus turned around to ask the two guards who had led them in, but they walked out before he could, closing the door behind them.

The room was bare, except the mats that covered the floor, and a pile of wood in one corner. Jaime shrugged and headed for the pile. Inviticus followed, unsure. Maybe they should wait for instructions…

But none came. Jaime motioned Inviticus over and tossed him a wooden staff. "I guess it's just us, then." And she swung.

The first blow caught Inviticus off-guard, striking his hand. Pain erupted in his wrist as Jaime struck again. The third time, however, he blocked the blow. And the next. Soon, the two of them fell into a rhythm – Jaime striking, him blocking. Jaime drove him to the other end of the room, but Inviticus didn't really care. Surely this was practice. Eventually, the Gamemakers would show up, and their session would _really _start.

But, after what must have been at least fifteen minutes – probably more – no one had come. Jaime shrugged and placed her staff back in the pile. "Maybe we can just go." With that, she headed out the door. Inviticus followed, still baffled.

Where were the Gamemakers?

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

She let him take the lead.

Naella followed Septimus over to the pile in the corner, watching silently as he chose a long staff. She chose a slightly smaller, lighter one – not as much reach, but more control. Naella nodded, and Septimus charged.

He was good – better than she'd thought to give him credit for. He wasted no energy; every blow he struck was carefully planned, aimed at a specific target that would have been fatal with a real sword, had she not managed to block it. He was fast. Precise. Determined. Perhaps the Career pack had made a mistake in rejecting him immediately.

But she had the benefit of training. _Real _training, not just theory. His footwork, his precision, his accuracy – it was all by the book. He was still calculating. Still thinking through every move. But she could _feel _it – the intuition, the instinct, that only years of fighting could supply.

After a few minutes, she started to attack, instead. She swung faster. Harder. Septimus managed to block each blow, but he was finally sweating. Breathing heavily. Physically, she was more capable. Mentally…

As she maneuvered past the pile of supplies, Naella scooped up a piece of wood and heaved it at Septimus' head. Startled, he moved to dodge it, but, even as he did, she struck a blow to the back of his legs, knocking him to the floor. Immediately, she turned and headed out the door before he could retaliate or ask for a rematch.

He would get his chance soon enough.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

"Where are the Gamemakers?"

Aleron looked around, confused, as he, Evander, Horatio, and India were all led into the same room. No Gamemakers. No supplies, except for a pile of wood in the corner. What were they supposed to do?

Evander shrugged and headed for the pile of supplies. "I guess we're supposed to use these." He tossed a short, sword-sized staff of wood to each of them. Aleron turned the staff over in his hand. It felt heavy. Strange. It didn't feel like a weapon at all.

Not that he'd been practicing much with the weapons. He'd spent most of his training time around the survival stations, and, from what he could tell, Evander and Horatio had, as well. India, on the other hand, tossed the staff from one hand to another a few times. "All right, then," she decided. "Who's up first?"

Evander glanced at Aleron and Horatio, but neither of them seemed eager to take on their older district partner. "Me, I guess," Evander volunteered, and India charged. Evander dodged the first blow, then blocked the second. Before long, India had driven him to the other side of the room.

Horatio turned to Aleron. "I guess it's you and me, then." He held his staff up defensively. "Go ahead."

Aleron did. He swung as hard as he could. Horatio blocked the blow, but the effort sent him stumbling backwards. He recovered quickly, though, and struck Aleron's staff as hard as he could. Aleron nearly dropped his weapon, but managed to hold on and strike again.

Maybe this wasn't so hard, after all.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

It wasn't such a bad idea.

Imalia quickly tuned out Kendall's grumbling about the six of them being evaluated together, along with Auster's confused questions about where the Gamemakers were and what they were supposed to do. Obviously there was a camera somewhere. Obviously the Gamemakers were still watching.

So they would notice. They would notice that she and Jarlan were the first to head for the pile of supplies, the first to arm themselves, the first to begin sparring. The others quickly took a hint, pairing off – Kendall with Auster, Brevin with Mavina. An oversized stick was no one's weapon of choice, but, since her alliance had all but agreed to abandon the cornucopia at the start of the Games, they would have to make do with what they could find. So they might as well start now.

The three pairs quickly spread out throughout the room. Auster and Kendall swung hardest, fastest, most aggressively. Mavina and Brevin were almost smiling as they parried back and forth, trading and blocking blows with ease, neither truly challenging the other's defenses. Meanwhile, Imalia and Jarlan traded blows, each struggling at times to keep the other at bay.

Mavina and Brevin left first, content that their fifteen minutes had passed. A few minutes later, Auster and Kendall did the same, satisfied with their efforts. Imalia glanced up at Jarlan as they drove each other back and forth. Jarlan shrugged a little, a smile playing on his face.

"They haven't dismissed us yet."

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18  
****District Five**

It was almost an hour before District Four was finished.

Liana shook her head as Jarlan and Imalia finally emerged from the room, covered in sweat but grinning heartily. Zach nodded politely at his allies, but Liana could tell that even he was growing impatient. What had they been _doing _in there?

As she and Zach were led into the room, Liana could see that there wasn't much _to_ do. A pile of supplies in one corner seemed to consist mostly of different-sized staffs. Zach chose one, and Liana quickly selected another.

Liana struck first, but Zach was ready. He was ready for the second blow, as well. And the third. Liana swung harder, but he blocked each blow quickly. Expertly. Almost effortlessly.

Liana swung harder, venting years' worth of frustration. Training had always seemed to come easily to everyone. Everyone but her. Training sessions that left her winded seemed to cause everyone else no more than a sweat.

Liana gritted her teeth. They could have their training sessions. The Games – those were _hers_. Maybe Zach was showing her up now, but in the Games, with a sword in her hand, she had something he didn't: determination. He wasn't a killer. She'd seen it ever since he'd hesitated at the reaping. He was _soft_. Physically, he might have the edge on her. Maybe he even had a better alliance. But she had a determination he could never match.

She was a _killer_.

* * *

**Alexi Merista, 16  
****District Six**

He wasn't a killer.

Alexi settled down next to the pile of wood with Nadine while Paget and Cordelia teamed up to take on Delvin, who had been the first to grab a staff. Presley watched for a moment before joining in, striking at whoever seemed the most vulnerable at the moment. Nadine glanced up from the small fire she was making long enough to observe her district partners. "You trust them – your allies?" she asked quietly.

Alexi looked away. She wasn't asking anything he hadn't asked himself several times over the last few days. But hearing it from someone else made it different, somehow. More real. "I don't know," he said quietly, surprised he was admitting it to himself, let alone to Nadine. "But it's too late now, I suppose, to choose anything else."

Nadine kept her voice low as she replied. "If you want, I could … I could ask my allies if it would be okay if you … joined us."

Alexi couldn't help staring. "Why?" he asked at last. "Why would you want to help me?"

Nadine shrugged. "Why not? The more, the merrier."

But there was something in her voice. Something more. If Alexi left Paget's alliance, too, then she wouldn't be the only one. Delvin had never agreed to an alliance in the first place, but Nadine – she had left. Which meant that Paget might target her out of spite. But if _he _left, too…

"Thank you," he said at last. "But no."

He had made his choice.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15  
****District Seven**

She had made her choice.

Fallon sat down with Ciere as Audra and Domingo began a rather lopsided battle with a pair of staffs. Audra was older, stronger, and had clearly been practicing with some sort of weapon. She managed to knock Domingo over at least three times, but, each time, the younger boy got up, ready to fight again.

Fallon, on the other hand, was concentrating on trying to make a fire. But it was always so much easier with the trainer watching. Correcting her. Keeping her on task. Or Elizabet. Elizabet could help her focus. But Ciere … well, Ciere wasn't really trying. She was using one piece of wood to whittle away at another, but Elizabet couldn't really tell what she was trying to make.

By the fourth time Audra had knocked Domingo over, however, Ciere was ready, and charged into the fight with the staff she had sharpened into a spear. Domingo saw her coming and quickly sidestepped, but she managed to catch Audra off-guard and gave her a light poke in the side with the pointy end of the spear. Audra turned, startled, and whacked Ciere with her staff before she even realized what she was doing.

Ciere toppled over, her nose bleeding. Immediately, Audra began to apologize, and Ciere assured her it was nothing. Fallon turned back to her fire. They were both so polite and apologetic today, but, once the Games began, those blows would be real.

They wouldn't get to apologize.

* * *

**Louis Soren, 14  
****District Eight**

This was even better than what he'd planned to do.

Louis sat quietly in the corner with a pile of wood, pretending to be rubbing them together to make a fire. He'd planned to do something of the sort, anyway: show a few survival skills, get a fairly low score – nothing that would make him a threat.

Now he could do the same thing while observing five other tributes.

He hadn't paid much attention to his district partners during training. Most of his effort had been focused on trying to learn as much about the other tributes as possible. He had spoken mostly to the younger ones, asking seemingly harmless questions about their older, stronger district partners.

And what he'd learned was valuable.

Anyone could see which alliances had formed, but he could tell which ones would stand, and which ones were ready to crumble in on themselves. Adelia's alliance, for example, was solid. Even now, she and Jediah fought as a pair, taking on Ivira and Gadget. Ivira and Adelia were fairly evenly matched – neither making much headway – as were Gadget and Jediah.

But where Adelia and Jediah were working as a team, Ivira and Gadget moved separately, each attacking a single target. Ivira's alliance was the same … All it would take was a push. A little push. The other boy and girl were already tiring of Gadget's constant yammering. How long would it be before they decided they didn't need her anymore?

And District Six – there were some interesting things going on there. And, of course, there were the three Career alliances – or, at least, three alliances pretending to be Careers. The smaller one was solid, but there was already tension between District One's tributes in the other. A little stress, and it would surface. The third alliance was being held together by the boy from Two. If anything happened to him…

Louis turned back to his wood pile, frustrated. He had so much information … but what was he supposed to do with it? He was in no position to give any of the alliances the push they would need in order to crumble. He had no influence at all, not even with his district partners. Aside from Baylor, they had been ignoring him.

But Baylor – even now, he was watching Louis, between efforts to join a fight he wasn't welcome in. Every so often, he jumped in to strike a blow here or there, but nothing substantial. Nothing that would earn him any sort of attention.

Maybe they were playing the same game, after all.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He had no idea what he was doing.

Thane clenched a staff tightly in his hand. Even if he and Sariya didn't have any particular fighting skills, they could at least make it _look _like they did. Without a word, Thane tossed Sariya a matching staff, then proceeded to arm Melody and Myrah, as well. Immediately, he turned to attack the younger girl.

Myrah gave a small yelp before raising her own staff to defend herself. Sariya followed Thane's lead and immediately moved to strike Melody, who was barely able to shield herself. "Wait!" Melody insisted.

But they didn't. They couldn't. They couldn't afford to. If they fought each other, it would be obvious to the Gamemakers that they had no idea what they were doing. But if they were able to overpower Melody and Myrah…

It still wouldn't work. The Gamemakers weren't idiots. But maybe they would get points for ruthlessness. For being willing to fight dirty. For being able to pick their battles, even if it was unfair.

And that was just as good. Once they were in the Games, it wouldn't matter whether their opponents were eighteen or twelve. They all had to die. Why did it matter if they died in a fight that was completely unfair?

Thane gave Myrah another whack with his staff. Mere days from now, they could be fighting this same battle for real. And he wouldn't be able to hold back then. So he wouldn't hold back now.

Within minutes, both of the younger girls lay on the floor, uninjured but quite winded, their arms raised in a sign of surrender. Thane nodded, satisfied, and followed Sariya out of the room.

That would do for now.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

What did they think they were doing?

Indira cocked an eyebrow as Calantha and Elizabet both plopped down next to the pile of wood and began building. What were they thinking? Were they _trying _to get a low score? Did they just not care enough?

Indira tossed Beckett a staff, then chose one of her own. Within seconds, the two of them were fighting, just like during training – except this time, they were fighting each other. This time, instead of covering up Beckett's weak spots, she had to take advantage of them. Every time he dropped his arm, every time he missed a step – every time, she was there.

But he was there, too. Counting her missteps. Slipping through her defenses. Indira cursed quietly as she tripped over her own feet, barely managing to scramble out of the way in time to dodge one of Beckett's blows. They'd spent so much time learning how to fight as a team, maybe they'd forgotten that they might eventually have to fight each other.

The thought filled her with dread, even as she struck another blow. In only a matter of days – weeks, at the most – this fight could be real. One of them would have to die, eventually, if the other one was going to make it out. Beckett. Shale. If she was going to make it home, both of her allies would have to die.

But not yet. For now, they were holding only staffs, their worst blows causing slight bruises and damaged pride. After what felt like much more than fifteen minutes, the pair finally laid their weapons aside. Elizabet had managed to construct a passable shelter with the remaining wood, while Calantha had made a smile fire. Both were reasonable accomplishments, to be sure.

But neither would keep them alive for long.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

He wished he had someone else to fight.

Shale clenched his teeth as he knocked Pan's legs out from under him … again. This wasn't helping any of them. He had soundly defeated his younger district partners at least three separate times now. But what did that prove? Even Elani, the oldest of them, was a good four years younger than him and more than a head shorter. It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't a fair test of his abilities, and it was even less fair to them.

But the Games wouldn't be fair, either.

Eventually, he would have to fight. He would have to fight older tributes and younger tributes alike. He would have to fight both Careers and outer-district tributes. He couldn't limit his opponents to those he deemed would give him a "fair fight." The point of the Games wasn't to fight fair.

The point was to get out alive.

One by one, his younger opponents peeled away from the fight, heading over to the stack of supplies to work at starting a fire. Shale nodded and left them to it. If fighting off his three district partners hadn't impressed the Gamemakers, then lighting a stack of wood on fire certainly wasn't going to. Making a fire was useful, to be sure, but, in the end, the Games didn't go to the tribute who could make the best home-cooked meal.

They went to the best fighter.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

They were fairly evenly matched.

Barry shook his head as he dodged another of Eleanor's blows. In this case, 'fairly evenly matched' unfortunately meant 'equally inept.' They were both making a fine show of dodging each other's blows, but that wasn't exactly going to impress the Gamemakers.

But what else were they supposed to do? He didn't want to fight too hard. They didn't want to risk injuring each other – even a little. Not so soon before the Games. Not when it could cost them their lives later.

So they soon discarded the staffs, opting for building a shelter and then a fire out of the wood provided. Soon, their fire was burning brightly. Eleanor gestured to the rest of the wood. "Do you think we should…?"

Barry shrugged. "Why not? We're the last ones." With that, the two of them piled the rest of the wood on the fire. For a while, they simply sat there, watching until the fire had burned itself out, grateful that the Gamemakers had coated the mats with something that _wasn't _going to catch on fire.

They really had thought of everything.

* * *

**Tamika Ward  
****Head Gamemaker**

"That was certainly efficient."

Tamika glanced up from the monitor as Silas entered. District Twelve had just finished their session, wrapping the day up in less than half the time the tributes would have taken if she had given them each an individual session. Tamika nodded. "Very efficient. I take it you … don't disapprove." Silas certainly didn't sound upset.

The president simply shrugged. "You and I both know training scores only exist to give the audience a place to start betting – and to stir up a little drama by telling tributes who to target first. It doesn't particularly matter to me how you reach those scores."

Tamika nodded. "Is there anyone in particular you would … like them to target?"

Silas shook his head. "Harakuise is satisfied that Septimus is no rebel – and if he's satisfied, then I'm satisfied. Jediah and Shale have shown no sign of being anything other than concerned, protective brothers. If there's no one else…"

"Sir, there have been … rumors … about certain circumstances regarding a few of the tributes from Six. The girl, Presley – she burned down an orphanage? Killed several of her teachers?"

Silas waved his hand dismissively. "She lashed out at people who had hurt her. She may be a threat to anyone who abuses her, but not to the Capitol. Anyone else?"

"The twins – Paget and Cordelia."

"What about them?"

"The people in the district claim they're witches. That their mother drained the life from an innocent man who was found later, bloodless, with no sign of an injury. They say the girl set fire to the district square using nothing but magic. They say they can—"

Silas held up a hand. "Do we have a reason to believe any of it is true?"

"Sir?"

"Do you believe they're witches who can kill people with a thought?"

"Of course not."

"Then we don't have a problem." He shrugged. "People have spread rumors about Balthasar for years. And yet here he is, back in the Capitol, mentoring, and nothing has gone wrong. Rumors are just that, Tamika. Words are wind. We'll hear our fair share of chatter before these Games are over, that's for sure. But as long as they've said nothing against the Capitol…"

"Not that I know of."

"Then we're good to go. Do your job, and let the Games tend to themselves."

Tamika nodded as Silas left, leaving her to her next job: assigning numbers. Numbers that people thought meant so much. Numbers that would determine which tributes would get sponsors' attention. But only in the beginning. Only until the Games began and the tributes' actions began to speak for themselves.

Numbers that, in the end, would mean nothing at all.

* * *

"_You're just not looking at the big picture, Doc."_


	27. Training Scores: Civilization

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yeah, quick update. I actually had both this chapter and the previous one written over the weekend, but I was at a Shakespeare festival - which was awesome - and didn't have internet access. So here's another chapter. :)

* * *

**Training Scores  
****Civilization**

* * *

**Constance Juniper  
****Hunger Games Host**

She usually hated the numbers.

Constance forced a smile as the cameras began to turn towards her. Her father had hated this night, as well – as much as one could hate any night during the Hunger Games festivities. He had always said it bothered him to see the tributes reduced to a number. A quantification of their chances in the Hunger Games, based not on their drive or determination or will to survive, but on a simple fifteen-minute session. A number subject to the whims and prejudices of the Gamemakers. A number often assigned simply to create drama, to turn tributes against each other, to lead them to believe certain tributes were more of a threat.

But this year was different. This year, the numbers represented something solid. Something objective. Something that – finally – had nothing to do with whether a tribute had the misfortune of being picked as one of the 'replacement' tributes. There was no special treatment. No bright, fancy costumes for one group and rags for the other.

Just numbers, pure and simple. No more accurate, no more relevant, than any other year. But something familiar. Something constant.

Constance grinned as the cameras counted down to zero.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

_Inviticus Cassiano, with a score of six._

_Jaime Gloire, with a score of ten._

"There must be some mistake."

Jaime glanced up at Inviticus as the four of them stared at the screen. Her score was somewhat expected. Jade, Stellar, and Jasper had all scored tens. So although quite well-deserved, a ten wasn't exactly a surprise. But Inviticus … His heart hadn't really been in his performance in the training room, but she hadn't thought he was _that _bad.

Inviticus stormed off immediately, still grumbling. Jasper followed, trying to cool him down. "You know why they did that, don't you," Jade said, his voice low.

Jaime nodded. It was rare for a Career to score so low, but it wasn't entirely unheard of. Sometimes the Gamemakers gave low scores to half the Career pack in an attempt to split them. But if Inviticus' score was the only low one…

"They know there's tension," Jaime said quietly. "And they know he's the source. They want us to go after him at the start. It'll give them a good show, and maybe give the rest of us a better chance of sticking together. They're baiting us."

"They are," Jade agreed, clearly proud that she'd figured it out on her own. "The only question now is whether you're going to take the bait."

Jaime nodded. She knew what she wanted to do. But convincing the rest of her alliance – that would be the tricky part. She might be able to take on Inviticus alone, but she didn't want to risk her life in the attempt if she didn't have to. But if she had the others' support...

Jamie nodded a little, then said something she had never thought would come out of her mouth.

"I'll have to talk to my allies first."

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

_Septimus Drakon, with a score of nine._

_Naella Sareen, with a score of ten._

"Well done, both of you."

Septimus glanced at Naella, who barely registered Harriet's praise. At the moment, she was much more concerned about her ally's peculiarly low score than her own high one. She had expected to do well.

Which was the problem, he had noticed, with so many Careers. They came into the Games expecting to do well. They'd always had everything supplied for them: the best trainers, the best weapons, the best conditions, the best opponents. They'd never truly had to fight for the privilege they considered theirs. So they simply waltzed into the Games expecting more of the same, expecting victory to be delivered to them on a silver platter.

He had never expected it to be easy. He was fighting an uphill battle, and would continue to do so throughout the Games. Harakuise had promised to help him, but even he could only be trusted to do so as long as it benefited his own tribute. As soon as Liana was out of the picture…

So he would have to keep her in the picture as long as possible. The rest of them were expendable, including the one he had known would be dead weight from the start. Once the Games began, that tie would be severed, as they all would, in the end. In the end, they were all dead weight.

It was just a matter of time.

* * *

**India Telle, 17  
****District Three**

_Aleron Blanchet, with a score of four._

_Horatio Connors, with a score of four._

_Evander Mercado, with a score of five._

_India Telle, with a score of six._

That was better than she'd expected.

India breathed a sigh of relief as her score flashed on the screen. Better than she'd thought. Better than any of her district partners. And tied with one of the Careers…

India shook the thought from her head. She had no delusions of being able to take on any of the Careers, no matter how poorly they had performed in a fifteen-minute session. Certainly not during the bloodbath, when they would all be together. Maybe later, if she managed to catch one off-guard or wounded. But not yet.

Other tributes, though – maybe she had a chance. As long as she could avoid the Careers – as long as they were preoccupied with each other – she might be able to fight her way in and out of the bloodbath. Just long enough to get supplies. Supplies that could save her life.

India clenched her fists, grateful that she didn't have to discuss the possibility with any allies. She wasn't weighed down by having to talk through every choice with them. There was no one to argue with, no one to try to talk her out of a decision.

And she had just made one.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

_Brevin Tolett, with a score of nine._

_Auster Maverick, with a score of ten._

_Jarlan DuMorne, with a score of nine._

_Imalia Grenier, with a score of nine._

_Mavina Perrot, with a score of eight._

_Kendall Rios, with a score of ten._

At least it wasn't a six.

Brevin smiled a little as Auster actually reached over and patted him on the back. He had spent three days of training assuming that he was the weak link in the Career pack, that he would get the lowest score and there was nothing he could do about it. And, sure enough, Jaime, Naella, Auster, and Kendall had racked up the only tens awarded so far.

But Inviticus had scored lower.

Brevin glanced at Jarlan, Imalia, and Mavina, who seemed content with their nines and eight. And quite right, too. After all, out of fourteen Career Victors – fifteen if Camden counted – how many had scored a ten? None from District Four, he was pretty sure. He turned to the group of mentors sitting behind them. "What did you get?"

Naomi answered first. "Eight."

"So did I," Kalypso nodded.

Bierce rubbed the back of his neck, as if uncomfortable or perhaps even embarrassed. "Nine."

They all turned to Mags, who smiled almost sheepishly. "Six."

The tension in the room diffused almost instantly. With the way both the tributes and her fellow mentors treated Mags with respect, it was easy to forget. Mags hadn't been a Career. She had won her Games at fifteen, without the benefit of training. And that afforded her a different sort of respect altogether.

And if she could do it, then why couldn't he?

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

_Zachary Travelle, with a score of eight._

_Liana Kinney, with a score of seven._

Two of the lowest scores so far.

Zach shook his head. Not lower than the tributes from Three, of course. And not lower than Inviticus. But Inviticus wasn't their problem. Two of Zach's allies had scored a nine, but not him. It was almost as if District Five was still a joke to the other Careers.

Camden immediately shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. "Not bad. You know who else got a seven, don't you?"

Zach nodded. Of course he did. Camden had scored a seven only three years ago. He was already one point ahead of his mentor. But, somehow, that didn't make it any better.

Harakuise tucked his hands behind his head. "That's nothing. I only got a five."

Camden rolled her eyes. "You were fourteen."

Fourteen. For a moment, Zach tried to imagine that – being in the Games at fourteen. Of course, the year he was fourteen would have been the year Camden had won. He would never have made it out of those Games alive.

So what had made him think he would make it out of these ones?

Zach tried not to flinch as Camden gave his shoulder a squeeze. He had wanted to do this. For her. For District Five. For all of them. But, now that it came down to it, he only wanted one thing for himself.

He wanted to go home.

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

_Paget Astier, with a score of five._

_Alexi Merista, with a score of three._

_Delvin Flynn, with a score of seven._

_Presley Delon, with a score of six._

_Nadine Olliston, with a score of three._

_Cordelia Astier, with a score of four._

She hadn't earned it.

Presley slid closer to Nicodemus as the seven of them watched the screen. Eight if Vernon counted, but he was passed out on one of the couches. She had tried. Tried not to do anything that might set her apart. Tried not to stand out too much. A thirteen-year-old who got a high score in training, after all, was sure to be noticed.

But it hadn't mattered. They had given her a high score, anyway. Because they knew. They knew what she was capable of, even if her fifteen minutes of swatting the other tributes with wooden staffs hadn't shown it. At least they hadn't given her a ten, but even a six was the highest score in her alliance, and only one point lower than Delvin, who was five years older.

Maybe Alexi and Nadine had the right idea, after all – sitting down and playing around with fire while the others fought each other. No one would notice a pair of threes in District Six, and they seemed content with their scores. Cordelia and Paget, as well, seemed happy with a four and a five. Even Delvin looked more relaxed, knowing his score had matched at least one of his allies.

Suddenly, Paget met her gaze, an eyebrow raised curiously. They had been in the same training room. He knew how little she had done. How low a score she deserved. And yet she had scored higher than him. Presley swallowed a wave of fear and put on her sweetest, most innocent smile.

"I guess somebody likes me."

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

_Domingo Ibanez, with a score of five._

_Fallon Ladris, with a score of two._

_Ciere Renole, with a score of four._

_Audra Trevaille, with a score of seven._

Maybe she could do this, after all.

Audra breathed a sigh of relief as her score appeared. Her seven tied both Liana's and Delvin's. It was no match for Septimus' nine, but she hadn't expected it to be. It had been clear from the start that he considered himself the strongest member of the pack. Clearly, he had every right to.

But she couldn't help feeling that she had finally earned her right to be part of the group.

Audra glanced over at Domingo, who was justifiably proud of his score. She had knocked him down quite a few times during their session, but, apparently, the Gamemakers had been impressed with his willingness to get up and try again so many times. More impressed, at least, than they had been with Fallon's attempt at a fire or Ciere's nosebleed.

Ciere, for her part, didn't seem at all bothered by her score. Hazel was equally undeterred. "I got a four, too," she pointed out, though she neglected to mention the fact that she had been twelve at the time.

Fallon, on the other hand, seemed quite upset. Her fingers were playing with the air around her head, as if her nervous habit hadn't quite adjusted to the fact that her hair was gone. Audra wrapped an arm around the younger girl, trying to comfort her. For now. For now, she could afford to be kind.

But, once they were in the Games, there was nothing she could do.

* * *

**Jediah Bouvier, 15  
****District Eight**

_Baylor Alanis, with a score of three._

_Louis Soren, with a score of three._

_Jediah Bouvier, with a score of six._

_Adelia Luciano, with a score of five._

_Gadget Test, with a score of six._

_Ivira Spielreyn, with a score of five._

"We all beat Kit's score."

Jediah sighed, almost wishing the Games would start just so he could punch Gadget in the face. But Carolina jumped in before anyone else could. "I only got a three."

Lander leaned back in his chair. "I got an eight."

Ivira nodded. "True, but the baseline was lower back when there weren't any Careers. _Someone _had to score high, or there wasn't much point to giving scores at all. What sort of score do you figure you'd get now?"

"Higher than you."

Carolina sighed. "Lander."

Lander rolled his eyes. "Fine. Maybe I'd get higher. Maybe I'd get lower. Doesn't really matter. You know why? Because I made it out. Once you're in the arena, your score doesn't matter. Kit got a two. Care got a three. But both of them are sitting here, just like me. The numbers are just that – numbers. They don't measure what's really going to happen in the Games." He turned to Gadget. "You're the walking encyclopedia. How many Victors scored a ten?"

"Five," Gadget answered without any hesitation. "All of them Careers, except for Ivy. And seven got a nine – five of them Careers. Five got an eight – three of them Careers. Six got a seven – three of them Careers. Four got a six. Five got a five. Five got a four. One got a three. Two got a two. One even scored a one. So there's hope for you two yet," she finished with a pointed glance at Baylor and Louis.

Jediah would have been annoyed, but he'd stopped listening around the sixes. Four Victors who had gotten a six. That meant there was hope. Hope that, maybe, he would be the fifth. So far, he had scored higher than all his allies – and, barring a surprisingly high score from Myrah, that pattern would hold. His allies would be looking to him for help. For protection.

Hopefully, that was a good thing.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

_Thane Hayer, with a score of seven._

_Myrah Lanhart, with a score of five._

_Melody Anson, with a score of five._

_Sariya Charsley, with a score of six._

Not bad at all.

Myrah nodded, satisfied, as her score flashed on the screen, followed by Melody's – just as high. Or just as low, depending on how one looked at it. But a five – that wasn't bad for a fourteen-year-old from District Nine. Eloise had scored the same, despite being older during her Games. Crispin had scored lower.

Thane cocked an eyebrow, confused. And he had a right to be. He and Sariya had soundly defeated Myrah and Melody before leaving the training room. But they hadn't seen what happened afterwards. She and Melody had continued sparring for at least twenty minutes, working up to a good pace, spurring each other forward faster and faster. Helping each other instead of trying to outshine each other.

Myrah had even thought about asking Melody to join her alliance. But she already had an ally of her own, and didn't seem particularly interested in adding to that number. Besides, taking both Melody and Baylor into their group would put them at eight tributes. It was certainly unusual to see a group that large.

Of course, in a regular year, eight would be a third of the tributes in the arena. Now, it would barely be a sixth. Did more tributes mean that larger alliances would be useful?

If so, she was certainly on the right track. Her alliance was one of the largest in the arena. Melody seemed to be going for the opposite strategy, hoping that she and Baylor would go unnoticed for a while. Maybe there wasn't one right answer.

They would just have to wait and see.

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

_Beckett Furlan, with a score of seven._

_Elizabet Brower, with a score of two._

_Calantha Harlyn, with a score of three._

_Indira Serren, with a score of seven._

"What do you think about the Careers' offer now?"

Beckett looked up, surprised they were still having this discussion. From Indira's tone of voice, she seemed to think that their scores would change his mind somehow. But, as far as he was concerned, it changed nothing. The Careers weren't interested in him, or Indira, except as a means to get Shale to join them. Once the Games began, they would be discarded at the earliest opportunity.

So why didn't Indira understand that?

"The same thing I thought before," Beckett repeated. "We scored lower than them."

"Not by much," Indira pointed out. "Mavina and Zach only got eights."

"They'll turn on us eventually. You know that, don't you?"

Indira hesitated. But, after a moment, she nodded. "I know. But that doesn't mean it's a bad idea. Maybe we shouldn't turn down an opportunity for stronger allies just because they'll turn on us _eventually_. _Everyone _in the Games turns on each other eventually. You and Shale and me … All of us know that can't last forever. But that didn't stop us from forming an alliance. Why should the Careers be any different?"

"Because they're _Careers_!" Beckett blurted out before he could stop himself. Was that it? It was no secret that the outer districts didn't like the Careers. They didn't trust the Careers. Every so often, there was a tribute who joined them, but, as a general rule, Careers and non-Careers didn't mix. But was he going to turn down an alliance simply because he didn't _like _the idea of Careers?

Was that a good enough reason?

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

_Pan Soya, with a score of four._

_Philus Polaine, with a score of four._

_Shale Avenheim, with a score of eight._

_Elani Ingram, with a score of four._

Everyone already saw them as a group.

Philus glanced at Elani and Pan. His allies. His friends. Three identical scores. That couldn't be an accident. The Gamemakers were already lumping them together.

But at least they hadn't been lumped together at the very bottom.

Several tributes had gotten threes. Two had even gotten twos. But the three of them – three of the youngest, smallest tributes – had gotten _fours_. Only one less than Tamsin had herself. Sure, it wasn't an eight. But it was something.

It was a start.

Tamsin said something he didn't quite catch. Philus waved his hand in a small circle, a sign that they all seemed to agree meant something along the lines of _Could you repeat that again, please? _Tamsin turned towards him and repeated her words. _At least now they know you'll put up a fight._

Philus nodded emphatically. She was right. The odds were still stacked against them. Even in the best scenarios – if one of them managed to come out – the other two would die. Chances were good that all three of them would die. But, if they did, they would go down fighting. Whatever was waiting for them in the arena, they would face it head-on.

And they would face it together.

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

_Barry Zephir, with a score of five._

_Eleanor Marxs, with a score of five._

She had been hoping for more.

Eleanor shook her head as the last two numbers flickered on the screen. She'd had no reason to expect anything better. She and Barry hadn't done anything particularly impressive. But there had been so many fives already. So many average scores. Two more didn't seem particularly remarkable – or memorable.

Brennan shrugged. "Average. But average isn't bad."

Eleanor shook her head. "Average is boring. Average won't get us any sponsors."

"It's not all about sponsors," Brennan pointed out. "Oh, I know everyone always goes on about how important they are. And there are situations – occasionally – where a sponsor gift can mean the difference between life and death … for a little while. But a sponsor gift isn't going to save a tribute who is otherwise hopeless. And some people have won without receiving a single sponsor gift."

Barry crossed his arms. "Name three."

"Elijah, Nicodemus, and Tamsin," Brennan answered without missing a beat. "The year before me and the two years after. None of them were popular with sponsors."

"Were you?" Eleanor asked, trying to imagine what sponsors would have thought of Brennan.

"Not at first," Brennan shrugged. "There were only five of us left by the time I got my first – and only – sponsor gift."

"What was it?" Barry asked eagerly.

"A note from my mentor telling me to _follow the music_," Brennan answered. "I did, of course – not knowing that my district partner had received the same note. Our mentor lured us together so that one of us would kill the other. She had supplies – supplies she would have shared, I'm sure, but by then … It was too late. The Gamemakers weren't going to let both of us walk away."

Eleanor looked away, trying to picture herself in that situation. If there were only a few of them left, and she and Barry were both still alive … would she do the same thing? Could she? Could she kill him?

Brennan shook his head, as if clearing away the memory. "My point is, yes, the sponsor gift helped. It gave me a little direction, led me to supplies. But, by that point, I'd already made it to the final five. I was already a killer. I was _already _a contender. I got to that point without any sort of help from sponsors. Some Victors went their whole Games without seeing a parachute."

"Now, this doesn't mean you should _ignore_ the sponsors," Brennan added. "And you certainly shouldn't give them any reason _not _to like you. But if you aren't the most charming, entertaining tribute in the arena … it's not the end of the world. Play the Game, make it far, survive, and, eventually, they'll notice you. Until then … being ignored isn't so bad."

Maybe it wasn't.

* * *

"_You're just not looking at the big picture, Doc. You're still back in civilization."_


	28. Interviews: Trapped

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Sorry this took so long. I've been a bit busy finding a place to rent, moving in, getting everything ready for the new school year, etc. Updates should pick up again once the back-to-school routine sets in. (I did, however, successfully complete Camp NaNoWriMo.)

I went back and forth on how to go about formatting the interviews, and finally decided on doing one POV for every pair of tributes, rather than each district. It would have ended up roughly the same length either way; I just didn't want to write two interviews from one person's POV and six from another. And this way you get to meet a few more of the tributes' loved ones. So here we've got the first four districts, which adds up to seven POVs. (Plus an extra bit at the end.)

Lastly, just a little reminder that the sponsor poll is staying up through the end of the interviews.

* * *

**Interviews  
****Trapped**

* * *

**Lulu Berridge, 22  
****Sister of Jaime Gloire**

It was too late to go back.

Lulu squeezed Julian's hand as the two of them settled onto the couch. Julian wrapped an arm supportively around his wife. "Are you ready for this?"

She wasn't. There was no part of her that was ready to see her little sister all decked out in fine Capitol clothes, prepared to fight for her life in the Hunger Games. But, at the same time, there was no way she was _not _going to watch the interviews. She just wished she felt as ready as Jaime did.

Jaime, of course, was ready. Sometimes Lulu thought her sister had been born ready. Their father had initially pushed for both of them to train, despite their mother's objections. But Lulu had dropped out after only a few days. It wasn't for her. The blood, the gore, the constant struggle. Whatever thrill Jaime got out of it, Lulu had never felt.

And they didn't need the money, the fame, whatever glory might come with winning. So what was the point? She was happier here. With the life their mother had always wanted for both of them. The life Jaime had shunned in favor of their father's dream of victory and glory.

Lulu had hoped that might change two years ago, after their father's death. And, for a while, Jaime had seemed to lose her interest in training, only to return to it with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. Her father's dream had become her own, just as their mother's had become Lulu's. A peaceful home. A loving family. A normal life.

The Career system made it all possible, of course. Because of the Careers, Lulu had never had to worry about her own life being at risk in the Games. Because of the Careers, her own children could grow up without the constant threat of being chosen to fight to the death. Every Career who went into the Games meant one more innocent child was safe in District One. Every time a Career volunteered, they saved a life.

Jaime didn't see it that way, of course. But it was true, nonetheless. She had taken someone else's place in the Games. She had saved a life, whether she had meant to or not.

Now she would have to save her own.

"Don't you worry now," Julian said reassuringly. "She'll be back just in time to meet her first little nephew." He laid a hand on Lulu's growing belly. Another child who would never know the horrors of the Games, because of people like Jaime.

"Or niece," Lulu added with a smile. She wished she was as certain as Julian seemed to be. As certain as Jaime always was. She was ready, yes – as ready as she could ever be. But even Jaime hadn't fully realized what she was volunteering for. She'd had no way of knowing just how different this year would be.

But knowing wouldn't have stopped her.

Lulu took a deep breath as her sister took the stage, wearing a long, flowing silver gown, a glittering silver tiara, and white high heels. Lulu held back a chuckle. Their mother was always trying to convince Jaime to act like a lady. Now, at least, for a little while, she was dressed like one.

But that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. Jaime was scowling as she took her place next to Constance, her surly expression clashing with the princess-like outfit. After years of dealing with Careers, however, Constance was unfazed. "So, Jaime, how has life in the Capitol compared with your expectations?"

"Oh, it's far exceeded them, Constance," Jaime assured her, finally managing a hint of a smile. "And I expect, by this time tomorrow, you'll be saying the same about your expectations of me."

"Confidence – I like that," Constance agreed. "Are there any specific expectations you hope to exceed?"

"Well, Constance, as you know, there are certain … standards … that Careers are expected to live up to. Since we're better-trained than the average tribute, we're expected to perform better. Higher scores. More kills. More Victors. Of course, the last one's the only one that really matters – and that's the one I'm aiming for."

"Speaking of scores," Constance pressed. "A ten in training. Care to say a few words about that?"

Jaime nodded. "To be honest, I'm more interested in other people's scores. I already know my own capabilities. I don't need a score to confirm them – although it's nice to know that the Gamemakers appreciate talent when they see it. But other tribute's scores are also useful – to let us know who's a threat … and who's a target."

Lulu squeezed Julian's hand tightly. That last remark had clearly been meant for her district partner, who had garnered only a six in training. Careers had been kicked out of the pack for scoring sevens; a six was practically unheard of. Did this mean he was out of the pack? That he would be one of their first targets?

That probably wasn't the wisest idea, Lulu concluded as Inviticus took Jaime's place onstage. Looking at him, it was hard to understand why he'd scored so low. His dark purple suit did nothing to hide his muscles, and the scowl on his face matched his district partner's.

But Jaime had pegged him as a target, and Constance pounced on that immediately. "So, Inviticus, do I detect a hint of tension in District One?"

Inviticus crossed his arms. "No more than usual. Alliances between Careers are assumed at the beginning, but, eventually, everyone's an opponent. This year is no different. Jaime and I are allies, but it's no secret that alliances don't last forever." He shook his head. "But, yes, I would say there's been some tension."

Constance leaned forward a little. "Do you think some of that can be attributed to your training score? A six is … rather low for a Career, if I might say so."

Inviticus shrugged it off. "We all have bad days. It's like Jaime said – people expect certain things from Careers. High scores. Kills. Victors. And, most of the time, we deliver. But what matters – what _really _matters – is the last one. Once you've won the Games, it doesn't really matter what your score was, does it?"

"And winning the Games – you seem very confident of that."

"Naturally. A low score is a minor setback – nothing more. Come tomorrow, I'm sure you'll all agree I deserved a ten – if not higher."

Lulu glanced at Julian, who held her a little tighter. Both of them were right, of course. High scores were nice to see, but they weren't what really mattered. All that mattered was who came home … and who didn't.

And there was nothing she could do about that now.

* * *

**Lucius Romayne, 55  
****Father of Septimus Drakon**

It was too late for second-guessing.

Lucius shook his head as the large boy from District One left the stage. Brute force had its place, and maybe his allies would be wise enough to acknowledge that and not turn on him immediately, but, ultimately, the Games were rarely decided based on physical prowess alone. It was a factor, of course – an important one, even – but unless the tribute also had a certain measure of intelligence or, at the very least, a modicum of common sense, all that strength was for nothing. And Lucius wasn't convinced that Inviticus possessed either.

Lucius leaned back on the couch, watching as his twin son and daughter, Marcellus and Alexandria, lapped up the festivities without question. They had no idea. No idea that, soon, a tribute who shared their blood would take the stage.

Well, half their blood. After Octavia's death, Lucius had remarried, putting it all behind him. Octavia. Septimus. He had buried that past, disowned his son, started a new life. And he had done quite well for himself, working his way up from that disgrace to the highest echelons of the Capitol's social circles. Only a select few people were now aware that Septimus even existed.

Vanessa knew, of course. She had known when she'd married him, and she'd married him in spite of it. Sometimes, Lucius suspected, _because _of it. Octavia's betrayal had hit him hard, but it had also strengthened his resolve. It had been an obstacle to overcome, and the challenge of overcoming it together had appealed to Vanessa. Power, after all, was worthless if it came easily. But if it was earned…

And he had earned his power. Struggled and scraped and sweated for every inch. Nothing had been given to him, but, by the same token, his efforts meant that no one could simply take it away. What power and influence he held was _his_, and no one else's.

Maybe he and Septimus had that in common.

The boy who had run forward at the reaping hadn't had the benefit of Career training. He hadn't been pampered and catered to; he had grown up in isolation. Whatever skills, whatever intelligence, whatever strengths he had were his, and his alone.

Vanessa flashed him a smile as the words "District Two" appeared on the screen. Whatever happened now was out of his control. He had placed a few calls to people who already knew his secret, asking that he be allowed to claim Septimus in his own way, at a time of his choosing. He was fairly certain that Constance would honor his request.

Septimus, on the other hand, was a different matter. If he broached the subject on his own, there was nothing Lucius could do to stop him. Which was why he had chosen to stay home this year, despite numerous invitations to join in the festivities of the interviews in the company of the elite. If his reputation was about to be tarnished – again – he wanted time to prepare. Time to formulate the perfect response.

And he wanted Vanessa by his side.

Lucius turned his attention to the screen as the girl from Two took the stage, wearing a blood-red dress, a matching headband, and dark red flats. Physically, she wasn't as impressive as Inviticus or even Jaime. But Lucius knew better than to write her off on that account. Despite District Two's reputation for brute force and ruthlessness, surprisingly few of their Victors had triumphed due to sheer strength alone. It was Harriet's resourcefulness that had allowed her to flourish in a weaponless arena, Balthasar's quick thinking that had kept him one step ahead of the other Careers after they rejected him. Maybe it was fitting that the two of them were mentoring this year.

Like the first two Careers, Naella didn't even crack a smile as she took a seat next to Constance. If anything, she looked a bit uncomfortable in the spotlight, with the attention of the entire Capitol trained on her, and her alone. Constance, however, jumped right in. "So, Naella, you were one of only four tributes to earn a ten in training – quite an accomplishment with so many tributes this year. Care to share a bit about how you earned such a distinction?"

Naella nodded curtly. "I know we're not supposed to reveal exactly what we do in our private sessions, but it probably won't surprise you to hear that the Gamemakers had a few twists prepared for us. I suppose they were impressed by the way I dealt with their surprises."

Constance leaned forward a little. "I think I speak for all of us when I say we look forward to seeing some of that quick thinking in action during the Games."

"And I look forward to the opportunity," Naella agreed. "As you said, there were four of us who earned tens this year. That can make it easy to lump us together – those of us who scored high, that is. But I'm confident that once we're in the Games, my particular skills will help me stand out even more."

"And what would you say is your greatest skill?"

"I would say that I'm … versatile," Naella offered. "We Careers can sometimes come across as rigid or inflexible. We find a strategy that works, and we stick with it. I would say that what sets me apart is my willingness to change, to adapt. It's impossible to be prepared for every contingency, but it is possible to be _ready_ for them. And I'm ready."

Lucius nodded a little. She had a point. Careers – _especially _Careers from Two – tended to have a single strategy. They banded together with other Careers, wiped out the other tributes as quickly as possible, and then turned on each other. And sometimes it worked. It had worked for Mortimer. It had worked for Ariadne. But, just as often, it was a Career who broke the mold and infused a little much-needed diversity into the group who came out on top.

Soon, Naella's time was up, and Septimus took her place, his demeanor a mirror of his district partner's. Calm, cold, without so much as a hint of a smile. His outfit was simple: a crisp black suit, shined black shoes, and a steel-grey tie that matched his eyes.

Octavia's eyes.

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Septimus, I think it's safe to say that's the most unusual reaping we've seen in District Two in quite a while. Can you shed a little light on why you volunteered?"

Septimus nodded. "It's quite simple, actually. District Two has a long, proud history of choosing the best-qualified candidate to volunteer. After assessing the volunteer who had been chosen, I believed I was more capable. And a majority of our Victors agreed with me."

There was more to the story, of course, and they both knew it, but, true to her word, Constance didn't press for the truth. "And, so far, it would seem that trust was well-placed," she pointed out. "A nine in training. I imagine you're pretty proud of that."

"Naturally," Septimus agreed. "It's a good start, and I hope it's enough to demonstrate some of my potential. But we all know that the real test starts tomorrow, and numbers only mean so much once the Games actually begin. I'm looking forward to the chance to prove myself."

Constance nodded. "Of course. Is there anyone in particular you're hoping to impress?"

For half a moment, Lucius held his breath. Constance had opened the door for Septimus; all he had to do was walk through it, and Lucius' reputation would be on the line once more.

But Septimus only shrugged. "I suppose I've set the bar pretty high for myself; I'm hoping to impress both the districts and the Capitol. After the last few Games, I think we all need a reminder – a reminder of what the Games really mean. They're a punishment for the rebellion, yes, but they're also an opportunity. And it's an opportunity I intend to make the most of."

Lucius let out a small sigh of relief as the rest of Septimus' interview proceeded without even the slightest mention of him. They may have been separated for seventeen years, but Septimus was his son. His sense of discretion, his grasp of what the audience needed to hear – maybe they had more in common than Lucius had assumed.

Maybe he had a chance.

* * *

**Eden Houzer, 59  
****Guardian of India Telle**

It was too late to question her decision.

Eden brushed a few tears from her eyes as the boy from Two left the stage. He wasn't entirely wrong. This year was a reminder of what the Games really were. But he was wrong about what they were. What they represented. The Games weren't an opportunity. They were a punishment. That was all they ever were. All they would ever be.

They hadn't dressed it up so much the first few years. There had been less show, less pomp, less celebration. There hadn't been any attempt to hide what the Games really meant: death.

She had lost her best friend, Jemima, that first year – one of the seven tributes to fall prey to Vester's blade before the Games were over. Even now, forty-one years later, she could still see the look in her friend's eyes.

Eden silently clenched her fists. If Vester had simply killed her friend, maybe she could forgive that – or at least understand it. It was the Hunger Games, after all. Only one Victor had escaped the Games without blood on his hands, and even then only by a stroke of luck and the sheer incompetence of the first Head Gamemaker. Killing was a part of the Games.

But torture wasn't.

Honor and courage. That was what the Games were about – or so the Capitol wanted them to believe. But where was the honor in slicing an unarmed opponent slowly to death? Where was the courage in staking what was left of her out in the field to die of thirst? Even the Gamemakers had shown more mercy, sending mutts to consume Jemima as she lay screaming, begging for death.

And all because her parents had fought for the rebels, as so many had. Vester had promised a slow, painful death to every rebel in the arena, and he was true to his word. But even now, forty-one years later, all Eden could think about was how easily it could have been her, instead. She was an orphan, just like Jemima. Her parents had fought for the rebellion, just like Jemima's. So why was she alive, when her friend was gone?

Maybe it was simply luck. They had both been eighteen. Only one of them could be reaped – at least back then. Now…

Now things were different. But maybe not for India. Maybe not for the fiery young girl who reminded Eden so much of her old friend. It hadn't been fair, perhaps, to expect India to fill that gap. Eden was the adult, after all. She was the teacher, India the student. She was supposed to be helping her pupil, not the other way around.

But the truth was that India had helped her more than she had ever wanted to admit. She had filled a void left so long ago – a need that Eden had thought would never be satisfied. India had benefited, too, of course. She had a home now. A place where she was safe and welcome. Someone who cared for her, without having to worry about putting enough food on the table to feed fourteen hungry mouths.

For however short a time, they had been a family.

Eden dried her eyes once more as India took the stage, wearing a long, flowing satin dress, with golden eye shadow and accents in her hair. Eden swallowed hard. It was unfair to start thinking in the past tense. India had a chance, after all. As good a chance as any other tribute on the stage.

But she had told herself the same thing forty-one years ago.

If she was aware of the connection, however, Constance kept it to herself. "So, India, I think it's safe to say this year was a surprising one for District Three. How do you feel about there being almost twice as many tributes as normal?"

India shrugged a little. "It doesn't matter much, I suppose. After all, the only one I really have to worry about is myself."

Constance nodded. "I take it, then, that we shouldn't expect to see you surrounded by an alliance in the Games."

India shook her head. "From what I've seen, they just seem to get in the way. Look at what happened last year. Allies didn't do anyone much good, did they? Besides," she added, leaning in closer, "Would _you _trust any of these people?"

Constnace laughed good-naturedly. "I suppose not. But, then, should they trust _you_, either?"

India smirked. "Of course not. Who's the last Victor of the Hunger Games who was actually trustworthy? Can you name even _one_?" She waited a moment before answering her own question. "Of course not. This is the Hunger Games. Trust gets you killed." She shrugged. "And I don't mean to get killed."

Eden nodded a little. She shouldn't have been so surprised, perhaps, that India had decided to go it alone. After all, the list of Victors who _hadn't _turned on their allies was pretty short. And if they hadn't, it was only because someone else had gotten to them first. So maybe it was better not to have allies in the first place. Miriam hadn't had any to begin with. Percival had lost his in the bloodbath. Avery had turned on her allies in exchange for the Capitol's mercy. Allies hadn't done any of them one bit of good.

Maybe India had the right idea.

Soon, India's time was up, and the first boy took her place, wearing well-cut black and white suit. He gave a little bow to the audience before taking a seat beside Constance. "So, Horatio," Constance said with a smile. "Your district partner was quite decided on the issue of allies. Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

Horatio shrugged a little. "She's right … but for the wrong reasons. It's not an issue of trust. Everyone knows that trust doesn't last forever in the Games. It's simply a matter of numbers. Do you know how many Victors had allies, Constance?"

Constance shrugged. "Off the top of my head, no."

"Neither did I," Horatio admitted. "So I did some digging. Out of forty-one Victors, fifteen are Careers. Obviously, I'm not, so let's take them out of the equation. That leaves twenty-six Victors. Of those twenty-six, ten didn't have allies in the first place, and six of the others lost their allies in the bloodbath or within the first day – either because they all died or because they got separated, whether intentionally or not."

"So that makes ten," Constance nodded. "Ten non-Career Victors who had allies who lasted past the first day."

Horatio nodded. "And sixteen out of twenty-six who didn't have allies for the majority of their Games." He shrugged. "I call that good odds."

Eden smiled a little. Not great odds. Sixteen out of twenty-six. Little more than sixty percent. Not great odds. But better than they could be. And his odds were just as good as India's.

But was that good or bad?

* * *

**Francesca Blanchet, 17  
****Sister of Aleron Blanchet**

It was too late to help him.

Francesca braced herself for the worst as Horatio's interview drew to a close. Aleron would be up next. The first of the 'replacement' tributes. There was no telling what the Capitol had in store.

Or what Aleron would have in store. She had tried to tell him. Tried to warn him that this was real, that his life was at stake, that he would need to grow up. But she had been telling him to grow up for years. Why would he listen now?

Why would he change now?

Francesca huddled closer to her parents, silently scolding herself. Aleron was her brother, after all. She should be missing him, urging him on, rather than wishing she could yell at him to snap out of it. But what good would it do? In the end, she couldn't help him.

No one could help him anymore.

No one except his mentor, perhaps. Maybe Miriam and Percival could talk some sense into him. But they would no doubt have their hands full with tributes who _would_ listen to them. Tributes like the two who had just left the stage. At least they could talk strategy. Aleron … who knew what he would do?

She didn't have to wait long to find out. As soon as Horatio left the stage, Aleron came charging on, dressed in a ridiculous patchwork suit more fit for District Eight than Three. Bright shades of yellow, red, and blue dotted the suit, topped off with a pair of boots – one yellow, one red – and a bright blue cap. Francesca couldn't help cringing at the sight. Was this one more way for the stylists to humiliate them, or had Aleron actually requested such a hideous outfit?

Even Constance seemed a bit befuddled as Aleron shook her hand, pumping her arm up and down. "So, Aleron, you don't seem at all … bothered … by the thought of the Games tomorrow. Care to share the secret of your enthusiasm?"

Aleron smiled a little. "Even you have to admit those last two were kind of a downer. No allies because this. No allies because that. I mean, all they did was talk about what they _weren't _going to do."

"I take it you have a different strategy."

Aleron beamed. "Of course! Once we're in the arena, my allies and I will be a force to be reckoned with. Mostly me, to be sure, but we've also got Evander, a pair from Eight, one of the girls from Six, and a girl from … Nine, I think? It's so hard to remember with so many tributes."

"That's quite a large group," Constance agreed. "And large groups have a tendency to go far."

"And get a lot of kills," Aleron added. "Someone has to beat Avery's record, and I mean for it to be me."

Even Constance didn't seem to know what to say to that. Technically, Avery held the record for the number of kills in the Games. Eleven in all – all her former allies. Not a record she was proud of, and certainly not one Aleron had a chance at breaking – even with so many extra tributes. Even Career Victors rarely tallied more than six or seven kills. And, as Horatio had pointed out, they certainly weren't Careers.

Not that it mattered, in the end. It didn't matter how many tributes the Victor killed personally. One kill or ten – it made no difference as long as they came home.

But was that even a possibility?

At least he had allies. That was more than Francesca had hoped for. He had somehow found people who were willing to put up with him – at least for a little while. But would that be enough? Eventually, they wouldn't be able to help him. Eventually, he would be on his own.

Francesca's father held her closer as Aleron rambled on about how they were going to wipe out all the Careers in the bloodbath. Finally, Constance had to cut him off. The audience was laughing, but Francesca was fairly certain her brother hadn't been going for 'funny.' The audience simply couldn't take him seriously.

Hopefully, that meant the Careers wouldn't, either.

Finally, Constance managed to convince Aleron to leave, and Evander took his place, wearing a simple black suit, red undershirt, and a dark red tie. His black shoes were polished and shiny, matching the top hat that hid his shaven head. Evander quickly took a seat next to Constance, smiling apologetically on his ally's behalf. "Sorry about that, Constance. He likes to talk. But, from what I've seen, he really is as good as he says."

Francesca finally smiled a little. That couldn't have been farther from the truth, but at least Evander was doing his best to clean up the mess Aleron had made. Constance seemed to appreciate the effort, as well. "Any truth to what he said about taking on the Careers?"

"Well, I suppose we'll be taking on everyone eventually," Evander answered vaguely. "As for what happens during the bloodbath … well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see. So much depends on what the arena's like."

"So true," Constance agreed. "What sort of arena would you like, if you could have your pick?"

Evander thought for a moment, maybe trying to decide what sort of arena would give District Three an advantage. It was too late, of course, for his answer to have any effect on this year's arena, but maybe he could plant some ideas for the future. A laboratory, maybe, or a giant computer replica – something that would be designed specifically for District Three.

But his answer wasn't what she'd expected. "Actually, I rather liked the arena two years ago – the library. Quite clever, with the different sections representing different books, different mutts appearing from stories to aid or attack the tributes. There was one section in particular I liked – a castle, with a moat and a forest around it. I would have liked to see more of that."

Constance nodded her agreement, and Francesca couldn't help nodding along. If not for the fact that children had been dying, that would have been a fun arena.

But children had been dying. And no matter how spectacular the arena was this year, forty-five of the tributes would still be dying in it. It didn't seem fair. Didn't seem right that such amazing, creative arenas were used solely for the purpose of killing innocent teenagers.

Francesca shook the thought from her head. Of course it wasn't fair. Nothing in the Games was fair. It wasn't fair that her brother was probably going to die, when he hadn't had anything to do with the rebellion last year or the tribute he was supposed to be replacing. It wasn't fair that she'd had to sit here and watch him make a fool out of himself in front of all of Panem. It wasn't fair that her parents had to watch their son go into the arena – and that so many families across Panem were doing the same. It wasn't fair at all. But it was the way things were.

She just hoped Aleron would realize that before it was too late.

* * *

**Elira Perrot, 18  
****Sister of Mavina Perrot**

It was too late to change her mind.

Elira wrung her hands silently, waiting. It should have been her. The entire district, it seemed, knew it. Knew that she had persuaded Mavina to volunteer instead of her. Knew that there was no way the trainers would have picked Mavina – not without a lot of persuasion. Everyone seemed to know why she had done it.

Everyone except her family. Her parents still believed the lie she had fed Mavina – that she had always had everything she wanted, and that it was time for Mavina to get her chance. Her parents – and Mavina herself – believed she had acted out of pity for her younger sister.

But the truth was a lot simpler: She had been afraid. After realizing – really, finally realizing – that the trainers meant to pick her, she had panicked. Started second-guessing every moment she had spent training for the past six years. Because even if she stood a chance – and she certainly did – it was still only a chance. There were no guarantees.

And she didn't want to die.

But admitting that to the trainers, to the district, to her parents … it would have been too much. Mavina had given her a way out.

Except it wasn't really a way out – not as much as she'd expected, at least. Her friends had been avoiding her ever since the reaping. Even her parents seemed a bit disappointed that she had gone through with allowing Mavina to volunteer. After all, Mavina could have waited until next year. She was only seventeen. They could both have had their shot.

But she didn't want her shot. Not anymore. So Mavina had taken it, instead. Never realizing. Never even suspecting the truth: that her sister was a coward.

Elira swallowed hard. A coward. It was the truth. The truth she'd been trying to avoid. But her friends knew. Maybe even her parents knew, on some level. She'd been afraid of the Games. But _this _– this terrible silence that had engulfed their family – was even worse. A part of her was beginning to wish she _had _volunteered.

But it was too late now. Too late to go back. Too late to take the place that could have been hers. Perhaps _should _have been hers.

She had missed her chance.

The silence in the room seemed to grow even denser as Mavina took the stage, dressed in a light blue-grey gown and white slippers, grinning proudly as she took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled right back. "Well, Mavina, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself. What's would you say has been your favorite part of the Capitol?"

Mavina's smile didn't falter for a moment. "The people, Constance, definitely. Everyone's so wonderful. Our mentors, the stylists, you, and, of course, my district partners. District Four has an excellent chance this year."

Constance nodded. "There are certainly more of you than normal, which could mean better odds. But it also means you've had to share the spotlight. As I understand, there are four mentors to share among the six of you. Has that worked out well?"

Mavina giggled a little. "Well, some people aren't too happy about it, but I don't mind. I've been sharing with my sister my whole life. I'm used to it." She waved playfully at the camera. "Hi, Elira! And thank you! Thank you so much!"

Constance smiled along. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to thank her for?"

Mavina nodded enthusiastically. "For the chance to be here. The trainers wanted her to volunteer, but she convinced them to let me have a chance. Me!" She grinned. "I won't let you down, Sis! I'll be home soon, and we can celebrate together!"

Elira's stomach turned a little as Mavina and Constance continued to babble giddily about what lay ahead. Mavina sounded so certain – so sure that, out of forty-six tributes, she would be the one coming home. Why was she so confident? Elira shook her head, surprised to find herself jealous of her little sister. If only _she'd _had that sort of confidence, she would be the one sitting on the stage now.

But she would also be the one going into the arena. The one fighting, killing, maybe even dying. It wasn't worth it. The cheers, the spotlight, the attention – they weren't worth the risk. Mavina was convinced there wasn't a risk, that the Games would be hers, without question. But it was never that easy.

The first boy, however, had the same confidence, the same lack of concern, as he swaggered onstage to take Mavina's place. He wore a white shirt with a black jacket outlined in gold, black slacks, black shoes, and a gold bowtie. His hair was perfectly spiked, as if to show off the fact that, unlike most of his district partners, he still _had _hair. And his smile was less of an enthusiastic grin and more of an arrogant smirk as he took a seat beside Constance.

Constance's smile, however, was still warm and open. "So, Auster, your district partner seems quite optimistic about District Four's chances this year. Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

Auster nodded. "Well, she's not wrong. District Four has an excellent chance this year. But she _is_ wrong if she thinks that chance is hers. If anyone here is going to be District Four's next Victor, it's going to be me."

"So what is it that sets you apart from your district partners?"

Auster smirked. "Simple. I'm the only one here who was the trainers' first choice to volunteer."

"What about Mavina?" Constance leaned forward a little.

Auster scoffed. "That little wanna-be? She was never the trainers' first choice. Actually, her sister was. But when she chickened out, did the trainers go with their next best choice? No. Elira begged them to choose Mavina instead, in a pathetic attempt to not sully the family name." He shrugged. "Not that it matters. Neither of them was ever as good in as I am. My ten in training is proof of that, and I intend to prove it again in the Games tomorrow."

Elira turned away from the screen as the two of them continued. Tears filled her eyes as her mother turned towards her. "Elira … Is it true? You backed out because you were afraid?"

Tears began to fall from Elira's eyes as she nodded meekly. "I … I just didn't want to die. Please don't … don't be mad."

Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Oh, honey. Why didn't you just tell us you didn't want to volunteer?"

Elira looked up, startled. They weren't upset? "I wanted you to be proud of me," she whispered softly.

Her father held her close. "We are. We always have been. But now Mavina—"

Elira swallowed hard. She had all but condemned her sister to death because she hadn't wanted to admit she was afraid. But it had come out, anyway, despite her best efforts. She had gained nothing from her deception, and now her sister would pay the price.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

**Kairi Walker, 17  
****Friend of Imalia Grenier**

It was too late to talk her out of it.

Kairi took a deep breath as she waited for her oldest friend to take the stage. She'd known for years that Imalia wanted to volunteer, but she had never quite pictured it like this. In fact, she'd tried not to picture it at all. She'd never had any desire to see her best friend in the Games.

But it was what Imalia wanted. What she had wanted for years, even though Kairi still didn't understand why. Not really. Why would anyone want to risk dying in the Games when they had a perfectly good life back in District Four?

Of course, that was where they differed. Where Kairi saw a perfectly good life – peaceful, stable, reliable – Imalia saw only boredom and drudgery. It had been that way since they were small. Imalia's parents were fishermen; Kairi's ran a small fishing supply store, making and trading lures and nets and other goods the fishermen needed for a share of their catch. They had grown up together, each learning the family trade. But while Kairi had embraced her parents' work, Imalia had always longed for something more. Something better.

And Kairi could understand that. What _didn't _make sense was why everyone always thought the Games would be _better_.

Maybe Kairi's life wasn't amazing. Maybe it wasn't exciting or glamorous. But at least she was _alive_. And, in a few days, she would almost certainly _still _be alive, while Imalia could very well be dead.

She wasn't kidding herself. Imalia was well-trained. But so were her five district partners. So were the tributes from One, Two, and even Five. Even if it were just the Careers fighting it out, Imalia would still be one of twelve, and certainly not the strongest contender in the batch. And it wasn't just the Careers. Forty-six tributes, and only one of them could come home.

Was it really going to be Imalia?

They'd talked about it before, of course – the possibility that it might not be. Imalia wasn't kidding herself, either. She knew that, at best, she had only a chance of making it out. But it was a chance she had chosen to take, anyway, because she couldn't bear the thought of being stuck catching fish day in and day out for the rest of her life.

Kairi shook her head. Whatever happened, at least it had been Imalia's choice. She hadn't been ripped away from her family like so many children at the reaping. She hadn't been pressured, persuaded, coerced into training or volunteering. This was what Imalia wanted. What she had always wanted.

But why did she have to want something so dangerous?

Kairi pushed the thought aside as Imalia took the stage, wearing a light, sea-green dress, a matching headscarf, and light grey flats. Even with the scarf covering her lack of hair, Imalia still looked uncomfortable. She had known she was volunteering for the Games, of course, but she couldn't have guessed the rest of it. She hadn't known what was waiting for the 'replacement' tributes during the chariot rides, during training. If she had, Kairi wondered, would she still have volunteered?

Maybe. Once they were in the Games, after all, it wouldn't matter. Or, at least, it _shouldn't _matter. The Gamemakers weren't above choosing sides, favoring one tribute over another. But would they really favor an entire group over another based on nothing but whose name had been drawn first, who had made it to the stage first?

Kairi turned her attention back to the stage as Imalia took a seat beside Constnace, the slightest hint of a smile on her face. Imalia had none of Mavina's giddiness or Auster's swagger, but Constance simply smiled back, anyway. "So, Imalia, there seems to be a bit of tension between the six of you from District Four."

Imalia nodded slightly. "I'm not going to disagree with that. There's certainly some tension, yes. But tension can be a good thing. Do you know what happens when you're fishing and your line goes tense?" She leaned forward a little, then answered her own question. "It means you've got a bite."

"That something has taken the bait," Constance prompted.

"Exactly. And when that happens, you have two choices. Your gut reaction is always to yank the line back as hard as you can, try to reel in your catch as fast as possible. But if you pull too quickly, if the line gets _too_ taut, what happens?"

Constance nodded. "It breaks?"

"It does," Imalia agreed. "So the trick is to use just enough force, to pull slowly and steadily enough to reel in the fish _without _breaking your line. That's one of the first things my parents taught me – and the most useful. Because that's the trick in the Games, isn't it? To win – but to win without breaking." She finally smiled a little. "And I don't intend to break."

Kairi nodded a little. At least Imalia wasn't going in with any delusions. She had trained with enough of the Victors to know how hard the Games could be on even the toughest tributes. She wouldn't be easy to break.

On the other hand, no one went into the Games _expecting _to break. Who would have guessed, all those years ago, that flamboyant, energetic Misha would be the one to crack under the pressure? He had been as strong as any of them going in – and he had broken.

Soon, Imalia's time was up, and the last girl took her place, dressed in a loose-fitting tan blouse, a pair of brown trousers, and black boots. A plain black bandanna circled her head, and a scowl seemed fixed on her face, a scowl that seemed to grow angrier the more Constance smiled.

But Constance either didn't notice or didn't care. "So, Kendall, how have you been enjoying your time in the Capitol?"

Kendall shook her head. "Let's get to the point, Constance. I'm not here to enjoy a good time in the Capitol. I'm here to win the Hunger Games – period."

"True, but there's no harm in having a little fun along the way, is there?" Constance prompted.

"There is if it's a distraction," Kendall pointed out. "That's the problem with so many Careers – even some of my district partners. They want to have fun, to have a good time. But the Hunger Games aren't supposed to be _fun_. They're supposed to be a challenge. And that's why I'm here."

"Well, you've certainly got determination," Constance pointed out. "And you're certainly focused. Anything else in particular that's going to help you in the Games?"

"My training, obviously. Like Auster already said, a ten is enough to prove I'm one of the strongest contenders. Now I just have to prove it again tomorrow."

Tomorrow. The word hit Kairi harder than before. It wasn't supposed to be tomorrow. It was supposed to be another year. Another year before Imalia volunteered – if the trainers even chose her at all. But that was what she had been afraid of. Not being picked. Afraid that she would miss her chance.

Maybe it would be better if she had.

* * *

**London Tolett, 15  
****Sister of Brevin Tolett**

It was too late for everything.

London glanced out the window as the last girl from District Four kept talking. She had thought – for a moment – that she had heard something. Something in the distance. But she must have imagined it. The wind was howling outside. Who would be out there in this weather, and with the interviews going on?

Of course, not everyone was as invested in the interviews as her family was this year. For as long as she could remember, she and her family had watched both the chariot rides and the interviews together. But she had never had any particular reason – beyond district loyalty – to care which tributes did well and which didn't. She had never personally known anyone in the Games.

Until now.

London shook her head. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. When Auster had been announced as the chosen volunteer, she had been relieved. Grateful that she would have at least one more year with her brother before…

London swallowed hard. She shouldn't be upset. No one else was. The rest of her family was watching intently, but none of them seemed concerned. They were all confident, all certain that Brevin was coming home.

But she knew that, somewhere out there in the night, there were five other families in District Four – and so many others in the other districts – all saying the same thing. All hoping the same thing. That their son, their daughter, their brother or sister would come home. But only one family would get their wish.

Was it really going to be hers?

Brevin certainly seemed to think so. He was beaming confidently as he took the stage, wearing a bright blue suit and a matching wide-brimmed, floppy hat. He plopped down next to Constance, already leaning forward excitedly in his chair. "So, Brevin, you certainly seem to be having fun," Constance noted.

Brevin smiled back. "Well, unlike certain people, I don't see any problem with having a little fun before the Games. I mean, it isn't exactly as if we're allowed to start killing each other yet. So we might as well make the most of our time before the Games begin."

"Oh, I agree wholeheartedly," Constance assured him. "What's been your favorite part so far?"

"Well, I'm a little surprised no one has said it so far, but I very much enjoyed the chariot rides. I thought our outfits were quite unique."

"You took yours off," Constance pointed out, chuckling a little.

Brevin shrugged. "And that made it even better."

London giggled along with the audience. Listening to her brother, it was hard to believe that, in less than twenty-four hours, he would be in the arena with forty-five other tributes, fighting and killing them so that he could come home. He sounded as if he was on his way to a party.

All too soon, Brevin's time was up, and the last boy from District Four took his place, wearing a white collared shirt, dark grey jacket and slacks, and black shoes. A simple black cap covered his head, and a small smile played on his otherwise calm and composed face as he took a seat next to Constance.

"So, Jarlan," Constance began, "I think we've gotten a feel for your district partners' opinions on the matter. How do you feel about there being six of you?"

"Grateful, mostly," Jarlan admitted. "Without the extra tributes this year, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. Auster and Mavina would be here, and that's it. So, as strange as it sounds, the rest of us owe the Capitol a debt for choosing to respond so generously to our mistake last year. We've been given a chance to redeem ourselves, and we're going to take it."

"So you, too, believe it's District Four's year … even after what happened last year?"

Jarlan shrugged. "What happened last year has nothing to do with us, aside from providing us with more tribute spots. Two people made a mistake. That's it. I wasn't involved. None of my district partners were involved. We're simply here to atone for that mistake, and we mean to do just that."

"So what you're saying is that your district is loyal to the Capitol, and the two last year were just…?"

"A fluke," Jarlan finished. "Even in the best of conditions, there are going to be people who are discontent. We've got it pretty good in Four – even those of us who started off rather low. I grew up in the community home, and look where I am now. Anyone else can do the same if they put their mind to it. There will always be people who want to lash out at those who have more, rather than trying to earn the same for themselves." He shrugged. "That's the reason the Games exist in the first place."

London was surprised to find herself nodding along. He was right – life was pretty good in Four. And if life could be good here, in the fishing district, then why not in Six, or Eight, or even Eleven or Twelve? The districts that were struggling – naturally, it was because they weren't trying hard enough. Weren't willing to work for it. Because they would rather lash out at the Capitol than try to pull themselves up out of the dirt.

Just then, she heard a sound – and this time she was certain. London rushed to the window and peered out into the night. Then she saw it, in the distance. A light, bright and burning. Something was on fire.

Something in the direction of the training center.

* * *

**Misha Brimmer, 37  
****Victor of the 22****nd**** Hunger Games**

They would thank him one day.

Misha grinned triumphantly as he stepped back, trying to get a better view of his good work. With everyone inside watching the interviews, no one had noticed him. No one had seen him sneak out of his house in Victors' Village and into the training center. No one had seen him make off with a handful of weapons. No one had seen him douse the training center with oil and set it ablaze.

But they saw it now.

People were running. Some towards the building, to get a better look, trying to figure out what was going on. Some away from the flames, trying to escape the blaze. A few Peacekeepers were beginning to emerge, but even they didn't want to get too close to his inferno. As long as he stayed close enough to the flames, maybe they wouldn't see him. But not too close. Not close enough to be burned himself.

Just then, without warning, the wind changed direction, fanning the flames towards him. Without thinking, Misha sprinted away – just far enough to escape the fire. But the movement caught the Peacekeepers' attention. One of them turned in his direction. Pointed at him. Raised his gun.

Panicked, Misha threw one of the knives he had swiped from the training center. It had been years since he'd used one, but his aim was as good as ever. The knife embedded itself in the Peacekeeper's chest. But, by then, several more had spotted him.

For a moment, gunfire filled the air. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Pain. Pain in his chest. Misha looked down, catching a glimpse of his mangled chest as he sank to the ground in a pool of blood. The rest of the weapons fell from his hand as he gasped for air.

Then, amid his own rasping breaths, he heard another sound. Laughter. It took him a moment to realize that the voice was his own. He was laughing, though the sound was punctuated by strange wheezing noises as his lungs and heart struggled to keep his body alive a little longer.

But he kept laughing, because he finally understood. He had been right all along. And one day everyone would realize it. One day they would thank him.

Not today, he knew, as his eyes closed one last time. But one day. And that was enough. Enough to provide a little comfort. He could still feel the warmth from the flames that danced merrily behind him as consciousness began to slip from his grasp. One day, that fire would spread. Misha smiled one last time as the darkness took him.

For the first time in twenty years, he wasn't afraid.

* * *

"_What I am is trapped."_


	29. Interviews: Remember

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note:** Sorry this took so long. I could blame school starting, but it's honestly just the fact that I feel about interviews the way most people feel about reapings. On the plus side, now you get a super-long chapter because there are two districts with six tributes in this bunch. So, without further ado, our second batch of interviews...

* * *

**Interviews  
****Remember**

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot, 47  
****Victor of the 9****th**** Hunger Games**

"You can say _I told you so_."

Harakuise shook his head. "You and I both know that's not why you called me here. Neither of us could have predicted exactly how unstable Misha was. I'm just grateful he acted at night when the training center was empty. You said there were only two fatalities?"

Silas nodded. "One Peacekeeper, and Misha himself. And I think – I hope – this is the end of it. But I need to be sure. That's why you're here."

"How can I help?"

"I need to know whether Misha acted alone. If he did, then the damage he's done should correct itself now that he's out of the picture. But if he wasn't the only one…"

"You want to know about the other Victors."

"I worked with some of them for a few weeks almost twenty years ago. You've known them for more than thirty. Do you trust them?"

"_Trust _them?" Harakuise chuckled. "Not in the slightest. Aside from Glenn, every single one of us is a cold-blooded killer. But as far as loyalty … I don't think there's much cause for concern. Those who have the means to cause problems don't have the motive, and those who have the motive don't have the means."

"Which ones would have a motive?"

Harakuise leaned back in his chair. "Nicodemus, for one, after what happened last year. But he's not a rebel by nature; he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, in any case, he's hardly in a position to raise any support. Vester, certainly, has little love for the Games after all these years. But he's not getting any younger, and no one in District Two is going to listen to a word he says against the Capitol, anyway. Kit and Avery, perhaps, but, after what happened to the tributes' families last year, I doubt either of them will give us any trouble."

"Is there anyone else in District Four who might?"

Harakuise shook his head. "Naomi and Kalypso are trainers themselves; they'll be as upset as their tributes at what Misha did. Bierce just wants to get on with his life, and it's probably better for everyone involved if he's allowed to do so; he's certainly no threat."

"And Mags?"

"Mags is a realist. She may have agreed with Misha on a philosophical level, but she's been around long enough to understand what a full-fledged rebellion would mean. She lived through the last one, after all."

Silas nodded. "As did I. And I have no desire to see another."

"Then that's something the three of us have in common. Mags won't initiate any sort of rebellion, and she won't act in support of one unless she believes it actually has some chance of success. Which it doesn't. Most of the other Victors know that, too – especially after last year's Games. Those who aren't loyal to begin with at least understand the consequences of a rebellion, and won't be willing to take the chance – not for a good long while. Eventually, some minor uprising will happen again … and be snuffed out again, all thought of revolution forgotten until another generation comes along – a generation that doesn't remember what happened the last time. It's a cycle. An unfortunate one, but a necessary one."

Silas nodded. "It would seem so. Thank you, Harakuise."

"My pleasure." He turned to go, but then hesitated. "Are you planning to make this public?"

"I don't seem to have much choice," Silas admitted. "Something this big won't stay quiet for long. I'll be making an announcement after the interviews."

"May I ask what you intend to say?"

Silas smiled a little. "I'm not planning any executions, if that's what you're worried about. Something like this can't simply go unpunished, but I've always believed that the punishment should fit the crime."

"Meaning?"

"Misha burned down the training center. He was trying to make a point, to bring down the Career system, or at least damage District Four's position as a Career district." He shook his head. "Maybe the best thing to do is give them what he wanted."

Harakuise nodded. _Perfect._

* * *

**Natalia Kinney, 16  
****Sister of Liana Kinney**

She would never forget this.

Natalia leaned forward in her chair as the last boy from District Four finished his interview. He had the right idea – trying to limit the damage last year's tributes had done to District Four's reputation, trying to convince the Capitol of their loyalty. It was a good idea, but it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't a good enough substitute for the real thing.

And that was where District Five had an advantage, despite their status as a newer Career district, still struggling to find its place. The other members of the Career pack might question District Five's training, but never their loyalty. And this year, loyalty would be even more important than normal.

She just hoped Liana would have enough sense to take advantage of that.

Natalia shook her head. She loved her sister, but common sense had never been Liana's strong suit. Her real strength was her passion. Her drive. Her willingness to charge in head-first, never mind the consequences. And maybe that would help her in the Games, where over-thinking and second-guessing sometimes got tributes killed.

But would that be enough?

It had never seemed to be enough before. Natalia was two years younger, but she couldn't remember the last time Liana had beaten her in a fight during training. There was a reason Camden had chosen her, and not Liana, as this year's volunteer.

But none of that mattered now. Maybe Liana's determination would be enough.

Natalia clenched her fists. No. Not 'maybe.' It would have to be. Liana would win. She would come home.

And then it would be her turn. Next year. Or maybe the year after. Maybe it was better for both of them that she hadn't volunteered this year, that Liana had taken her place. Now she could wait until she was truly ready.

She just hoped Liana was ready now.

Despite her doubts, Natalia couldn't help smiling as her sister took the stage, wearing a tightly fitted black dress with a grey ribbon around her waist, light grey leggings, and white flats. Her hair was pulled back with a grey headband, and her steely smile matched the rest of her outfit.

Constance smiled back. "So, Liana, District Five has recently been described as an emerging Career District. Can you give us some insight about where you and your district partner fit in the dynamic of this year's Career packs?"

Liana nodded crisply. "Well, I can't speak for my district partner – who's chosen to ally with three of the tributes from District _Four_ – but I've taken a page out of my mentor's book chosen to work outside the … normal Career pack structure."

Natalia nodded. So the other Careers had rejected her. Or she had gotten frustrated with them and left. Either way, Liana had managed to save face by comparing herself with her mentor. Harakuise's allies, after all, had been the boys from Two, Nine, and Twelve. Of course, that was before Career systems had truly come into play, but she was right to remind the audience that loyal tributes weren't found only in Career districts.

Constance leaned forward a little. "Do I detect a little … animosity … towards the tributes from Four?"

Liana scoffed. "Naturally. Look at what happened last year. Those two tributes had the opportunity of a lifetime, and they threw it away for … what? But it's not just them. If it were, maybe we could consider it a fluke, like the district clearly wants us to. But the rebels were _chosen _to volunteer. Their failure isn't just their own. Their mentors failed to see their intentions – or, worse, were willing accomplices. Their trainers failed – like their mentors, they were either willing participants or simply blind. Their _district _failed. They don't _deserve _the opportunity they've been given this year."

"So you disagree with Jarlan's assertion that their district, as a whole, is loyal."

Liana simply smirked. "I guess we'll find out."

Natalia leaned back, satisfied, as the interview continued. Maybe Liana really _did _know what she was doing. Harakuise had been coaching her – that much was obvious – but, still, she'd been able to follow through on her own. She'd been able to swallow her rashness, her impulsiveness – at least long enough to make a good impression.

Unfortunately, she'd also alienated her district partner.

Natalia tensed as Zach took Liana's place, wearing a rose-colored shirt under a black suit. A circlet of roses crowned his head, and a bracelet of ivies and pink rose petals circled each wrist.

His expression, however, stood in cold contrast to his flowery appearance, though it was clear as he passed Liana that most of his displeasure was directed at her. Once he'd volunteered for the Games, Zach's history had become common knowledge. His older brother had been killed in the riots following the 25th Games. His best friend had been murdered by rebel sympathizers. To accuse him of allying with potential rebels had been a low blow, but also a daring move. Natalia doubted he'd ever had his loyalty questioned before. How would he respond?

Constance didn't even try to sidestep the matter. "So, Zach, according to your district partner, there seems to be an alliance between you and several tributes from District Four. Care to share why you chose them as allies over the other Careers?"

Zach hesitated, perhaps deciding whether to tell the truth or try to spin some clever lie. "It's quite simple, actually," Zach said at last, hesitantly. "The larger Career pack was, in fact, my first choice, but they failed to acknowledge my potential, so I decided to seek an alliance elsewhere."

"And your … second-choice allies. How would you describe them?"

"Strong. Confident." He glanced out at the audience. "Loyal."

Constance leaned forward a little. "Are they, Zach? Are they really? Can you say that with certainty? Can you – you, who would know better than anyone – tell this audience beyond a shadow of a doubt that your allies are loyal? That they are not planning any sort of rebellion? That we will not have to repeat the tragedy of last year's Games … at their hands?"

Zach hesitated. Not long, but long enough. Long enough for Constance's words to echo in the minds of the audience, long enough for them to begin to doubt. "Yes," he said at last. "I'm certain."

But he didn't sound certain. Natalia allowed herself a small smile. Whatever he said now, whatever he did now, the damage was already done. How could he trust his allies now? How could they trust him? And how could anyone choose him over Liana, whose loyalty they had no cause to doubt?

Maybe Liana had a better chance than she'd thought.

* * *

**Violan Astier, 43  
****Uncle of Cordelia and Paget Astier**

He just wanted to forget.

Violan shook his head as he squeezed Velion's hand gently. He hadn't even wanted to watch the interviews, but his wife had insisted. This was one of the last times they would see the twins, after all. She had insisted that they owed Paget and Cordelia that much, at least.

And maybe they did. They were still family, after all. Despite everything. Despite the rumors. Despite the mystery. Despite it all, Cordelia and Paget were still children. Still family. They hadn't asked for any of this.

But neither had he. He had done everything he could to distance himself from his older sister. But after her death, he was still the one they had turned to, because they'd had nowhere else to go.

The rest of the family – his family, at least – was long gone. His own parents had died in the rebellion, leaving him and his three-year-old sister at the mercy of the community home. Their time there changed Celeste. Hardened her. She had protected him, and, for that, he would always owe her – enough to take her children in despite his own reservations, to spare them the same fate.

Not that it had helped.

The magic had begun all those years ago as a lie. A way to keep the bigger kids in the community home from harassing them. Even the smallest threat of retaliation worked wonders against children who had plenty of other targets to choose from. And Celeste had always managed to produce enough evidence – just enough slight of hand, just enough of a clever coincidence or two – to convince them that maybe there was some truth to what she said.

It had been enough to keep them safe. But, slowly, it had grown beyond that. Beyond the odd trick or fancy-sounding words. Magic became Celeste's refuge in a world of cruelty and hardship. But while she delved farther into her own world, Violan had pulled away. Even then, he had only wanted to be normal. A normal life. A normal family.

And now he had that chance.

He had never asked for this. Never asked two take in two children he barely knew after the death of a sister he rarely spoke to. It wasn't his fault they couldn't control themselves. It wasn't his fault they had painted targets on their backs.

It wasn't his fault they were in the Games.

He just wanted to forget. To move on. As terrible as it was, this was a chance at a fresh start for him and Velion, without the fear and the shame and the mystery that seemed to follow his niece and nephew.

Now they could forget.

But not quite yet. Violan braced himself as Cordelia took the stage, wearing a flowing, cream-colored dress, white stockings, and plain white shoes. She smiled shyly as she slid into a seat across from Constance.

Constance smiled back sweetly. "So, Cordelia, you and your brother have the distinction of being only the second brother-sister pair we've had the pleasure of seeing in the Games together. Can you tell us a little about what that's like?"

Cordelia's smile didn't fade, but she was gripping the arms of her chair as she responded. "It's such an honor, Constance. And, to be honest, I think it gives us a bit of an advantage. Other tributes have to question each other, doubt each other's loyalty. We already know each other's own capabilities, our strengths and our weaknesses. We'll certainly be a team to be reckoned with."

A lie, certainly – but a well-rehearsed one. And it was enough for Constance to build on. "I take it, then, that the two of you will be working together."

Cordelia nodded. "Naturally. As long as we can, at least. Eventually … well, eventually, you have to make a choice. Your life or … or the life of someone you love. I just hope that … that neither of us actually has to make that choice."

Constance nodded sympathetically. "But if you did…"

Cordelia looked up. "I would choose him."

That much, at least, was probably true. Violan shook his head as the rest of the interview continued without a hitch. Whatever else anyone said about the two of them, Violan had never doubted that the twins loved each other.

Odds were, of course, that they would never have to make that choice. That they would be dead long before it got to that point. Surely the Capitol would be targeting them. Surely neither of them truly had a chance.

Soon, Cordelia's time was up, and Paget took her place, wearing a black suit with dark blue lining. He gave his sister a reassuring smile as they passed each other, then took his place obediently next to Constance.

"So, Paget," Constance began. "What's it like being in the Games with your sister?"

Paget hesitated for a moment, deciding. Finally, his expression turned grave. "Do you have any siblings, Constance?"

Constance nodded. "I do, indeed."

Paget leaned forward a little. "All right, then, you tell me." He turned his gaze to the audience. "You, too, if you will. Think back to when you and your loved one – sister, brother, close friend – were about fifteen. Now imagine that the two of you are in a fight to the death with some four dozen other teenagers. Only one of you can live, but that probably won't matter. Chances are, you'll be dead before you have to choose between the two of you. And there's a part of you – at least a small part – that's hoping that you'll go first … because then you won't have to see your best friend die right in front of you. Can you picture that?"

"I…" Constance hesitated, not quite sure how to respond to that.

Paget He leaned back in his chair, his hands tucked behind his head. "Of course you can't. But _that's _what it's like." He smirked. "Obviously, it's the best thing that ever happened to me."

Violan shook his head. "What does he think he's doing? Doesn't he realize what they'll do to him?"

"What _can_ they do to him?" Velion pointed out. "They're going to die, anyway. And he's not like last year's tributes – he doesn't care what they might do to _us_."

Violan froze. "Or does he?" Was this Paget's revenge – one last attempt to make sure that, if he went down, they went down with him? If he appeared rebellious enough, would the Capitol come after them?

Had they sealed their own fate?

* * *

**Dr. Abraham Loomis, 56  
****Caretaker of Presley Delon**

She would never be forgotten.

Abraham shook his head as he leaned back in his chair. He had known for a while that this day would eventually come. That his relationship with Presley, his attempts to help her, were temporary at best. She had been lucky enough not to be executed on the spot when the Peacekeepers had found her, but their patience could only last so long. It had only been a matter of time.

He had hoped it would be more time. That he might have more time to prepare her for what was coming. But that had been too much to hope for. The district wanted to move on. They wanted to be able to get rid of her and be done with it.

They wanted to forget.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't. He had known that the first time he'd met her. Where others had seen only a cold-blooded murderess, he had seen a child. A damaged, broken child, but a child nonetheless. And no child deserved this.

He knew better than to say so, of course. Knew better than to voice his objections out loud. Over the years, he had seen many thing, but he had never seen anything good come from voicing or acting on rebellious thoughts. Such things, however well-intentioned, always led to pain and tragedy. The events of the previous Games were merely the most recent example.

Abraham adjusted his glasses as Presley took the stage, wearing a dark blue corset, a black skirt, and a black choker necklace. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop her head, held in place with a black ribbon. Presley was smiling sweetly, almost giggling, as she took her place next to Constance.

And while her behavior was certainly unnerving, it was better than what he'd expected. After she'd been forced through the chariot rides heavily drugged and restrained, he'd been worried the same might happen during the interviews. But Presley was quite lucid – albeit a bit giddy – as she glanced out at the crowd.

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Presley, I believe it was about a year ago that your name was first heard in the Capitol. Would you like to share a bit about the incident?"

Abraham nodded. Obviously, the entire Capitol would have heard about the murders by now. No point in beating around the bush when there was drama to be had. But Presley was ready. "There's really not much to say, Constance. My teachers hurt me. And I'm sure I wasn't the only one. But I was the only one who chose to act. And now … now they won't hurt anybody again."

"So you don't believe you did anything wrong."

Presley giggled a little. "Of course not. I mean, the reason we're all here tonight is that forty-six of us are about to be thrown into an arena to kill each other. Obviously, no one thinks there's anything wrong with that. So what makes what I did any different?"

Abraham smirked. She had a point. The Capitol could hardly condemn what she had done without questioning what she was about to do. Every child in the arena would have to become a murderer if they wanted to come out alive. She had simply beaten them to it.

Constance didn't seem ready to argue the point, either. "So would you say that your … experience … will give you an advantage in the Games?"

Presley shrugged. "I can't say for sure. The last time, they didn't exactly … fight back." She smirked. "I guess we'll both find out tomorrow."

Abraham nodded. She'd made the right call – trying not to come across as over-confident. Any element of surprise she might have had was gone now. The other tributes would know exactly what to expect from the tiny thirteen-year-old who had managed to outscore most of her district partners in training. She wouldn't be able to catch them off-guard.

But that didn't mean she didn't have any surprises in store.

Soon, Presley's time was up, and the next girl took the stage, wearing a light blue blouse, a dark blue skirt, and a pair of black shoes. A lacy blue veil was draped over the back of her head. She took her seat immediately, trying to smile, trying not to look as frightened as Abraham was certain she felt.

"So, Nadine, tell us a little about your life at home," Constance offered warmly, trying to ease her into the moment.

"We're pretty normal, I guess," Nadine said quietly. "There are six of us – my parents, my brother, my two sisters, and me." She looked around for a moment, not sure if she was supposed to say something else or wait for another question. "We're just … just normal people. I don't have any special 'experience.'"

The crowd got a few chuckles out of that. Abraham shook his head. The girl had no idea just how lucky she was. Presley had never _had _a chance at a normal family. A normal life. If their lives, their situations, had been reversed, would this girl have ended up any different from Presley? Would Presley have been just as ordinary, just as innocent, as any of the others?

"Can you tell us a little about your siblings? Are they older? Younger?"

Nadine nodded. "They're younger – all three. My sisters – Emmy and Adalie – they're eight and nine. Uriah's eleven."

Constance nodded sympathetically. "Almost reaping age."

"He'll be eligible next year," Nadine said softly. "And that's why … that's why I have to win. To show him that there's nothing to be afraid of. That, even if you're reaped, even if you end up in the Games, it's not the end. Or, at least it doesn't have to be. That everyone has a chance – even me."

Abraham smiled sadly. It was what her family would want to hear – that she hadn't given up, that she still believed she had a chance. And maybe she _did _believe it. Maybe she _did _have a chance – however slim.

But it was a small chance. Especially this year. And Presley … Did she even have a chance at all, or would the Gamemakers be targeting her? Even if they weren't targeting her specifically, did any of the 'replacement' tributes really have a chance? Or were they simply there to be punished for last year's rebellion?

Abraham shook his head. He could speculate all he wanted, but that wouldn't bring him any close to a real answer. Presley, of all people, had been right. They would simply have to wait and see.

Tomorrow, they would all find out.

* * *

**Lenitsky Pavel, 18  
****Friend of Delvin Flynn**

The Capitol would make sure they never forgot.

Lenitsky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, as the last girl finished her interview. She wasn't wrong. Not entirely, at least. The last two Games had been enough to prove that anyone had a chance in the Games.

But a chance at what? Out of District Six's Victors, one was a drunk who had lost his son in the Games, and the other was a cripple. Not exactly the life of luxury and fame that was promised by the Capitol. And this year, after what had happened so far, what sort of life awaited the Victor?

Lenitsky shook his head. Delvin wasn't Vernon. And he certainly wasn't Nicodemus. Whatever life was in store for him if he won, it was better than nothing. Better than death. Delvin had always made the best of the little he had. He would do the same if he won.

If he won.

It was only a chance, of course, but after hearing from most of his district partners, Lenitsky was beginning to think it was a better chance than he'd originally thought. A pair of children whose own aunt and uncle had agreed to have them reaped. A thirteen-year-old murderer who would almost certainly be targeted by the Gamemakers. And a little girl who had spent her entire interview spouting emotional stories about her family back home. Delvin's chances were starting to look better.

But only compared to the rest of his district. There were still forty other tributes out there – and twelve of them were Careers. Even if Delvin stood the best chance in District Six, the fact remained that District Six had fewer Victors than almost any other District.

And the worst part was, Delvin shouldn't have been there at all. It had been his last year. They had already chosen two tributes. If only the tributes the year before hadn't rebelled, Delvin would be sitting next to him, watching safely as two of the others went to their deaths.

Lenitsky shook the thought from his head as the second boy from Six took the stage, wearing a dark blue suit with light blue trim, black shoes, and a round black hat. A forced smile covered his face as he took a seat next to Constance. "Good evening," he blurted out before Constance had the chance to say anything.

Constance beamed back. "Good evening, Alexi. You certainly seem to be in a good mood."

Alexi shrugged. "Well, I guess when you realize it might be your last night alive, you decide you might as well enjoy it." He smiled nervously, then seemed to realize he'd made a mistake. "I mean, I don't _want _it to be my last night alive, but … there's always a chance, right?"

Lenitsky cringed. Of course there was a chance – and, for this kid, probably a pretty good one – but that was never something the audience wanted to hear. Constance did her best to backtrack. "Is there anything in particular you've been enjoying about your time in the Capitol?"

Alexi nodded. "I would say getting to know my district partners. One good thing about the Games is they bring together people who … well, who otherwise would never have met, let alone talked to each other and grown close. I've gotten to know most of them quite well over the last few days."

"Some of your district partners have quite a … colorful past," Constance ventured. "Would you say that's had some effect on your relationship?"

Alexi shook his head. "I don't think so. The Games give everyone a sort of … a clean slate, I guess you could call it. It doesn't matter who we were before we came here. The Games give us a bit of common ground, no matter who we are. A common struggle to survive."

Lenitsky shook his head. It was a nice sentiment – the idea that, in the Games, they were all equal, that what they had done before the Games didn't matter. But the simple truth was that some people's lives had better prepared them for the challenges they would face in the Games – better prepared them to fight for their lives. And this kid wasn't prepared at all.

Delvin, on the other hand, seemed perfectly confident as he took the stage, wearing a blue-grey button-down shirt, black pants, and shiny black shoes. A light grey, short-brimmed hat covered his head. There was only a hint of a smile on his face as he took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled. "So, Delvin, a seven in training – the highest in your district, one of the highest overall for a non-Career. Can you tell us a little about that?"

Delvin shrugged casually. "I've got a bit of experience, I suppose. Not as much as _some_, but I've been in a few scraps. I'm hoping that'll be enough to give me a bit of an edge."

"I see. Is there anything else that might give you an advantage over some of the others?"

Delvin nodded. "One simple thing, Constance: I'm not interested in getting to know people better. Unlike some of my district partners, I'm not here to make friends. I'm not here to make the most of what might be my last few days. I'm here to make sure they _aren't_ my last few days."

"That's certainly a good attitude to have," Constance agreed. "What effect is that going to have on your strategy in the Games?"

"I think it's already had quite an effect," Delvin pointed out. "I've found allies who will be able to help me in the Games, rather than the other way around. I'm not worried about finding common ground with them; I just want to win. Period."

Lenitsky nodded along as Delvin's interview continued. Cold. Hard. Uncaring. He was giving them exactly what they wanted to see. His friend would never admit the real reason he wanted to come home so badly. Would never admit just how much his mother and sister needed him. He didn't want their pity, their sympathy. He just wanted to win.

Just as Delvin's interview was drawing to a close, there was a knock on the door. Lenitsky practically jumped. Who would be coming to see him during the interviews? Sasha, maybe, but why would she show up now, rather than before their friend's interview?

Hesitantly, Lenitsky got up and answered the door. There was a man on the other side, dressed in a simple grey suit and black cap. "Lenitsky Pavel?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

Lenitsky nodded. "Who's asking?"

"My name is Mr. Gordon, but I represent a larger organization that's very interested in obtaining your services, Mr. Pavel. For a reasonable fee, of course."

Lenitsky cocked an eyebrow. "How reasonable?"

Without a word, Mr. Gordon produced a small bag of coins and handed it to Lenitsky. Lenitsky glanced inside; there was enough for at least a month's rent. Maybe more. "There's more where that came from if you're in," Mr. Gordon assured him.

Lenitsky nodded. "Okay, I'm interested. What's the catch?"

"Could be dangerous."

"How dangerous?"

Mr. Gordon stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Dangerous enough that you should give it a little thought, at least. Sleep on it tonight, Mr. Pavel. If you're still interested, meet me tomorrow at this address." He handed Lenitsky a piece of paper.

Lenitsky nodded. "What time?"

"Just as the Games are beginning. Find me and, if you're in, just say two words."

Lenitsky smirked. "What two words?"

Mr. Gordon leaned in close, his voice little more than a whisper. "Remember Byron."

* * *

**Demelza Trevaille, 38  
****Mother of Audra Trevaille**

She would always remember the way things were.

Demelza squeezed Freda's hand gratefully as the old woman wrapped an arm around Demelza's shoulders. The pair of them – Freda and Kurt – had approached her shortly after the reaping and asked if she wanted some company. Demelza had been about to politely refuse until they introduced themselves, explained that they had lost their own daughter, Lydia, to the Games thirteen years ago – the same year Casper had won.

So she had welcomed their company, because they could actually understand what she was going through. They had been in her position not so long ago. They remembered. And so they had decided to reach out. Why they had chosen her, Demelza could only guess. Maybe it was because the other tributes had larger families. Families who would comfort each other. Help each other get through this, one way or the other.

She had no one. It had just been her and Audra. It had never been easy, but it had always been enough. They had always been enough for each other.

But there was nothing she could do now. She couldn't be their for her own daughter. She couldn't do anything that would help Audra. The best thing she could do, Freda had said, was take care of herself. But even that had become a chore. Audra had helped her through the last eighteen years. Raising Audra alone had never been easy, but she had always managed to pull it together for her daughter's sake.

She didn't want to think about what would happen if Audra didn't come back.

But it was a possibility. A possibility that seemed more real with every tribute who took the stage. Every tribute who came onscreen was one more tribute who would have to die in order for Audra to come home. Some were younger, weaker. But some were stronger. Well-trained. Ruthless.

Audra was many things, but she wasn't ruthless.

Then again, neither of District Seven's Victors was the definition of a ruthless killer. Hazel had killed only one tribute during her Games, and that was only after he'd been viciously wounded by mutts. What she'd done had been merciful. Casper had ambushed two tributes before the finale, but those kills had been quick. Painless. And his last fight had been against an injured Career. A boy who wouldn't have thought twice about killing him.

That didn't make it right. But it did make it a little easier. It was easier to picture her daughter killing in self-defense, protecting herself or her allies from a cold-blooded killer. The thought that Audra might actually _become _a cold-blooded killer…

Demelza shook the thought from her head. If that was what Audra had to become in order to survive, then that was the way it would be. She would have done the same, she was certain, if she had ever found herself in the Games. She would have fought. She would have killed.

She would probably have died.

Freda squeezed Demelza's hand as Audra took the stage, wearing a long, forest-green dress, dark brown leggings, and black shoes. She was smiling, and, as Audra took a seat next to Constance, Demelza was surprised to see that her smile looked genuine. Was she acting? Or had she truly found something worth smiling about in the Capitol?

"So, Audra," Constance beamed. "You certainly seem to be enjoying your time here in the Capitol. What's been your favorite thing so far?"

"I've enjoyed having the opportunity to learn something new," Audra offered. "There's not a whole lot of variety in District Seven. But here, you can be learning how to make a shelter one minute and decide to go pick up a spear the next. I've been learning a lot."

"And it certainly shows," Constance agreed. "A seven in training. Very impressive."

Audra smiled modestly. "I suppose so. But, as a few people have said already, numbers only count for so much. It's what you do in the arena that really matters. One of our Victors in Seven got a six. The other got a four. It's important not to overlook anyone, not to underestimate your opponents."

"And there are quite a few more opponents this year," Constance pointed out. "Do you think that'll make it harder to keep track of all of them?"

"At first, maybe," Audra admitted. "But I've managed to find a good group of allies, and, between us, I think we'll do better than any of us would alone. I may not be able to remember much about every single tribute, but, with a group of us, we should be able to keep track of everyone."

Demelza nodded along as the two of them continued. So she had been able to find allies. A good-sized group of them, from the sound of it. That was comforting, at least. Her daughter wouldn't be alone.

Not at first, anyway. No alliance in the Games lasted forever. But it would be good to have a few other people at her side, in case things got rough in the beginning.

Soon, Audra's time was up, and the boy took her place, wearing a white, neatly-buttoned shirt, a dark green jumper, and black dress trousers. Demelza couldn't help but notice that his feet were bare, as they had been at the reaping. But it didn't seem to bother the boy, who slid into a seat next to Constance, smiling up at the interviewer.

It didn't take Constance long to comment on his lack of footwear. "So, Domingo, is this a new fashion statement you're hoping to make?"

Domingo chuckled a little. "Well, it's certainly not any worse than some of the other things we've seen so far. Even you have to admit some of those chariot outfits were a bit silly."

Constance giggled. "Including yours?"

Domingo shrugged. "Mine wasn't that bad, all things considered. Just not particularly creative. Trees, trees, and more trees. I mean, I know Seven's the lumber district, but we have more then trees."

Constnace leaned forward. "So if you were a stylist, what would you do for the chariot rides?"

Domingo thought for a moment. "Maybe little wooden figurines – puppets, or some carved animals. Or maybe squirrels or owls – Why should District Ten get all the animal costumes. Or maybe even books." He shrugged. "So many possibilities, and we keep coming back as trees year after year."

Constance beamed. "Well, Domingo, you'll just have to come back as a Victor – then they'll have to listen to your suggestions."

Freda scoffed. "No, they won't. Hazel and Casper have been making suggestions for years. Does anyone listen? No. Now, if one of the Victors from their precious Career districts were to suggest something, they'd probably listen. But District Seven? Not a chance."

Demelza nodded a little. Freda wasn't wrong. Compared to the other Victors, maybe Hazel and Casper didn't seem like anything special. But they were the only Victors that District Seven had.

And they were her daughter's best hope.

* * *

**Ace Ladris, 13  
****Brother of Fallon Ladris**

He would never forget her.

Ace smiled a little as Domingo kept listing off every single chariot costume that would be better than trees. At least someone had finally said it, finally decided to tell the Capitol just how stupid the tree costumes were.

He was just glad it hadn't been Fallon. They might take it personally. It might have hurt her chances. But if it hurt Domingo's chances … well, that could only help Fallon's. And that was a good thing.

Wasn't it?

So why did it sound so terrible?

Ace drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. He knew he shouldn't feel bad for hoping that the boy would continue to waste his time making fun of the Capitol's fashions. Anything that was bad for him was good for Fallon. But he knew Fallon wouldn't want to look good by making everyone else look bad. She would want to look good on her own.

But maybe it didn't matter, in the long run. Maybe it didn't matter what _anyone _said during the interviews, as long as they didn't say anything against the Capitol. Anything that would make them a target. And, so far, at least, no one had. Not really.

Not that he could remember, at least. There were so many of them. How did Constance keep track of all the names? Did she have cards hidden somewhere with the tributes' names on them? Was there some sort of device in her ear that would tell her a tribute's name in case she got it wrong?

Or did she just have a great memory? That was probably the most boring explanation, but it made sense. Because that was pretty much her job – remembering tributes' names, announcing training scores, narrating what the audience was already seeing onscreen. A pretty easy job, now that he thought about it. Anyone could do it.

He could probably do it.

Not that he would want to. What sort of person would _want _to host a fight to the death? What sort of person would _want _to be the one who made sure that everyone treated it as a celebration, rather than a funeral for twenty-three tributes?

Forty-five this year, actually. Which should have made it worse. But, instead, Constance seemed as chipper as ever – even though she'd already interviewed the regular number of tributes. She was still smiling warmly as Domingo left the stage.

Immediately, Fallon took his place, wearing a frilly, light green dress, white stockings, and light grey shoes. A single, dark green ribbon was wrapped around her head. Fallon was smiling, her eyes darting from Constance to the audience to the lights and back again.

"So, Fallon," Constnace prompted. "Have you been enjoying your time in the Capitol?"

"I certainly have, Constance," Fallon agreed readily. "Everything's so new – the food, the clothes, the buildings."

"The buildings," Constance repeated. "What about the buildings?"

Fallon blushed. "They're so tall! Most buildings in District Seven are only one or two stories – maybe three. The training center here is _twelve _stories tall. Even the trees in District Seven aren't quite that tall – at least, I don't think so. I've never really gone out and measured one."

"Well, maybe there'll be something tall in the arena," Constance suggested.

Fallon nodded enthusiastically. "I hope so. I mean, obviously I hope so, because that would certainly give District Seven an advantage. Although I guess it depends on what it is. Climbing trees is different than climbing buildings, which would be different than climbing a mountain."

Ace giggled a little as Fallon continued. She was right – having something to climb wasn't necessarily an advantage for District Seven alone. But it certainly wouldn't hurt. And there would almost certainly be _something _to climb. Trees, buildings, mountains – there was always something.

_Almost _always. There had been a tundra arena five years ago; there hadn't really been anything to climb there. And the year before that had been an ark. Not much to climb there, unless a tribute wanted to jump out of the ark and climb back in…

Soon, Fallon's time was up, and the last girl took her place, wearing a short, dark gold dress, a light gold shawl, silver stockings, and white shoes. The hood of the shawl was pulled up, hiding her shaved head.

Constance smiled warmly. "So, Ciere, can you tell us a little about what might set you apart from the other tributes in these Games?"

Ciere thought for a moment, then answered simply. "I'm not afraid."

Constance leaned forward a little. Clearly, she'd been hoping for more than that. "And why aren't you afraid, Ciere?"

Ciere smiled a little. "Because of my family. I know that, even if I don't make it home, they'll take care of each other. They'll pull through it for each other's sakes. And I know they'll never forget me."

Constance nodded a little. "That's certainly a good thing … but wouldn't it be better to make it back to them yourself?"

Ciere nodded. "Of course. But only one tribute makes it home, Constance. So it's good to know that … well, in case it isn't me … they'll be all right."

Ace swallowed hard. He wished he could be as certain about his own family. About himself. If Fallon didn't come home…

Ace shook the thought from his head. Of course she was coming home. She had to. Or, at least, he had to keep hoping that she would. If their positions were reversed, he knew, she would never give up on him.

So he wouldn't give up on her.

* * *

**Zale Alanis, 16  
****Brother of Baylor Alanis**

He would never forget.

Zale rubbed his hands together as he waited for Baylor to take his turn onstage. He wished he _could _forget. Wished he could forget how terrible it had felt to hear his brother's name called at the reaping. To see his brother – his little brother – take the stage, knowing that no one was going to save him.

Zale shook his head. No one had expected him to volunteer. Occasionally, when a younger sibling was chosen, an older sibling would volunteer to take their place. But only occasionally. It certainly wasn't expected. No one blamed him for what he had done. What he _hadn't _done. No one had expected him to step in and save Baylor.

And it wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if not for the other boy. The one who _had _stepped in to volunteer, to save not a younger brother, but an _older _one. If someone else could be that brave, what did that make him? He was sitting here, safe with his family, watching his little brother about to be sent to his death.

His death. Zale clenched his fists. _Stop it. _It wasn't certain yet. Nothing was certain. Baylor still had a chance – however slim. He had to keep hoping that Baylor would make it home.

Then maybe he could forgive himself.

Baylor wouldn't blame him, he knew. Even their parents probably didn't blame him. Probably. It was so hard to tell, sometimes. Ever since the reaping, they'd been quieter. But their silence hadn't seemed to be directed particularly at him. They probably just didn't want to say or do anything that would hurt Baylor's chances.

Hopefully, Baylor would have the same sense.

Not that he would ever say anything outright rebellious. Zale was pretty sure of that. Sure, the two of them had been hoping that the rebels would succeed. But so had almost all of District Eight. Almost all of _every _district, probably. Even some people in the Career districts, if District Four was any indication.

They knew better than to say so, of course. Especially after last year. But even so, there were other things he could say. Things that could be taken the wrong way. Anything he said about his allies, for example – anything about growing close to them, about trusting them with his life – could draw comparisons between him and Kit.

Of course, there were worse things. Kit had won, after all. It was only after his victory, during his own Victory Tour, that things had started to go wrong. But the Capitol probably wouldn't make that distinction. Better to avoid being compared to him at all.

But would Baylor realize that?

Zale turned his attention back to the screen as the first girl took the stage, wearing a green-and-brown camouflage jacket and pants and black boots. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her expression all business as she took a seat next to Constance.

Constance just beamed right back. "So, Gadget, I hear you're something of a Hunger Games aficionado yourself. Can you share any little bits of trivia that the audience might not already know?"

Gadget leaned forward a little. "Certainly. Did you know that this year will mark the thousandth death in the Games?"

"No, I didn't," Constance admitted.

"Twenty-three deaths in a normal year," Gadget explained. "Take that times forty, and that gives you nine hundred and twenty. Add thirty-five deaths in the first Quarter Quell, and that's nine hundred and fifty five. Another forty-five this year means the last death in this year's Games will be the thousandth overall."

"Fascinating," Constance grinned. "Care to venture a guess at who that thousandth death might be?"

Gadget smirked. "Not me. I'll be reaching a different milestone – making the thousandth kill in the Games."

Zale shook his head. At least she had confidence. But the way they casually talked about a thousand children dying … A thousand. And, in the end, it wouldn't matter one bit to their families whether their child was the nine hundred and fifty-sixth death or the thousandth. They would still be dead.

Soon, Gadget's time was up, and Baylor took the stage, wearing a pale rose button-down shirt, black slacks, and black dress shoes. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and there was a friendly smile on his face as he took a seat beside Constance.

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Baylor, I hear that you specifically requested Kit as your mentor. Can you tell us what prompted such a request?"

_Damn it_. Zale knew exactly why Baylor would ask for Kit as his mentor. He wanted to do something kind. But at least he was doing something kind for someone who _wasn't _a tribute, rather than someone he would eventually have to kill.

Baylor, of course, had a different answer ready. "There were a couple reasons, actually, Constance. First of all, Carolina and Lander are great mentors, but they already have their hands full. Mentoring six tributes – it would be easy to get lost in the shuffle. But I've got Kit all to myself."

Well, that much was true, at least. Not that it would help him much, unless the boy had suddenly decided to start speaking again. "And what would the other reason be?" Constance prompted.

Baylor leaned back in his seat, smiling. "Actually, the other reason also has to do with time. Both Lander and Carolina won more than thirty years ago. Which means they have more practice mentoring, certainly, but it also means their memories of their own Games are a bit more distant. Kit's Games were only two years ago. He remembers exactly what it's like to be the one in the arena."

"And you feel that will give you an advantage – even though this is his first time mentoring?"

Baylor shrugged. "Everybody's got to start somewhere. A couple mentors brought a tribute home on their first try. Tobiah. Tess. Even our very own president," he added with a smile. "Why shouldn't Kit and I be next?"

Zale smiled a little. A good effort, certainly. He'd almost managed to convince Zale that choosing a mute fifteen-year-old as a mentor was a good idea.

Almost.

Maybe it wouldn't matter. Carolina and Lander had a reputation for coaching their tributes together, anyway; hopefully, they wouldn't simply leave Kit and Baylor on their own. And requesting a different mentor – maybe that would help Baylor stand out in the Capitol's eyes.

Zale just hoped standing out wouldn't cost Baylor his life.

* * *

**Sarai Luciano, 9  
****Sister of Adelia Luciano**

She didn't want to forget.

Sarai huddled closer to her parents, her eyes fixed on the screen. It was almost Adelia's turn. Part of her didn't want to watch. Part of her wanted to look away, to close her eyes, to forget – if only for a moment – what they had done to her sister. Her best friend.

But that wouldn't make it any better. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't undo what they had done. She couldn't bring Adelia home safely to District Eight, back to the family that loved her. Only Adelia could do that now.

But did she really have a chance?

Twenty-eight tributes had taken the stage so far. Each one of them believing – or at least hoping – that they would be the one to make it home. What gave Adelia a better chance than any of the others? She was older than some, but also younger than some. Stronger than some, but weaker than some – especially the Careers. Would the audience in the Capitol see her as anything special?

Sarai brushed the tears from her eyes. It didn't matter what the Capitol thought – or, at least, it shouldn't. Adelia was special to _her_. Adelia mattered to _her_. Wasn't that enough?

But most of the tributes had someone – someone at home who cared for them, someone who would miss them, someone they mattered to. Some of the others surely had brothers and sisters. Most had mothers and fathers. Families who were waiting for them to come home.

And only one family could get their wish.

Sarai's parents held her closer as Adelia took the stage, wearing a medium grey blouse, a black sweater, a long, dark grey skirt, and black shoes. With the dark outfit and a black, lacy veil draped over most of her head, she looked like she was taking part in a funeral, not a celebration.

Adelia's expression, however, was anything but somber. She smiled warmly as she took a seat next to Constance, who returned the smile gladly. "So, Adelia, we already heard from a few of your allies – as long as Aleron was telling the truth. Aleron and Evander from Three, Nadine from Six, you and Jediah, Myrah from Nine … That's quite the group you've got there. Without giving away too much about your strategy, can you share a bit about the dynamic in such a large alliance?"

Adelia nodded. "It's one of the oldest rules in the Games, Constance: there's strength in numbers. Even outside of Career packs, tributes who can work together as a team tend to last longer."

"And you believe your alliance has what it takes to work together as a team? What gives you that confidence?"

"I would say it's because of the way this group formed. We weren't forced together out of some notion that tributes from our districts _have _to work together. We – Jediah and I – were looking for people who would be able to get along, work together without the inner tension that we've seen from some of the larger groups tonight. We may not be the strongest group in the arena, but I'd say we're one of the most tightly knit. This isn't an alliance that's going to break any time soon."

Constance nodded. "That's a lovely sentiment. But we all know that alliances don't last forever. What do you think will happen when the time inevitably comes to split?"

"I would hope that we can do just that – split without any conflict between ourselves. There are plenty of other tributes in the arena. The chances of it coming down to just us are … well, pretty slim. But if it does, then we do what we're here to do: fight it out, and the best tribute wins."

Sarai swallowed hard. She made it sound so simple. So painless. _The best tribute wins_. But they all knew that wasn't true. Wasn't that simple. How often did the 'best' tribute really win?

Too soon, Adelia's time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a long, black dress with a layered, tattered skirt and black high heels. Her face was lined with black make-up, and a thin, silver circlet sat on her head. The rest of her head was lined with black ink, streaking in patterns across her head and down her neck. The makeup on her face did nothing to hide her smile, though – a small smile which was probably meant to be pleasant but which came across as unnerving.

Even Constance gave her make-up and outfit a double-take. "Well, Ivira, that's quite the costume you've got there."

Ivira shrugged a little. "What makes you think it's a costume?" When that didn't get an immediate response from Constance, she elaborated. "You've got blue hair, right? Is that a costume, or is that you?"

Constance hesitated. "It's me, but—"

Ivira cut her off. "But what? But you chose it, rather than having some stylist pick it for you? So someone from the Capitol can dye their hair blue and their skin green and turn their eyes pink and no one bats an eyelid. But as soon as someone from the districts shows up with something similar – no, not even as extreme – it must be a costume. What if this is what I would have chosen, anyway, even without a stylist? What if this is simply who I am?"

Constance thought that over for a moment, then smiled sincerely. "Then I think that's wonderful."

Ivira fell silent, surprise creeping over her face. "Really?" When Constance simply nodded, Ivira regained her composure. "Well, thank you, Constance. And I think it's safe to say that, come tomorrow, the whole audience will know who I am."

Sarai clung tightly to her parents as the interviews continued. Maybe the whole audience didn't know who Adelia was, but _she _knew. She knew her sister. Even if the worst happened – even if Adelia never came home – she would always remember. She would remember who her sister was, and what the Capitol had done.

She would never forget.

* * *

**Bryson Bouvier, 18  
****Brother of Jediah Bouvier**

He would never forget how he had felt.

Bryson shook his head as he, Rogelio, and Nerissa huddled closer together, waiting for Jediah's turn. It still didn't feel real. He was safe. After seven years of reapings, of dreading the idea of hearing his name called, he was finally safe.

But only because Jediah had stepped in. Only because his brother – his _younger _brother – had chosen to take his place. What right did he have to be sitting here, safe, while Jediah risked his life? He was the oldest. He was supposed to protect the others. That was supposed to be _his_ job.

But, in his own way, Jediah had been right. Rogelia and Nerissa still needed him. He still needed to protect _them_. And he couldn't do that if he was dead. No matter what happened now, he was safe.

And part of him felt relieved.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at the reaping. Hadn't wanted to admit that maybe Jediah had made the right choice. That maybe he had a better chance in the Games. But, even then, part of him had known it. He hadn't done anything to stop Jediah when he'd volunteered. He had been too startled. Too relieved. Too grateful.

He would always owe his brother for what he'd done. But the best way to repay him – regardless of what happened in the Games – was to take care of the others. If Jediah came home, he would need them more than ever. He would need something familiar, stable, secure. And if he didn't…

If he didn't, then Rogelio and Nerissa would still need him. They would be looking to him, watching to see how he would respond. And what would they see? Bryson swallowed hard. No matter how he felt, he had to hold it together. For them. He had to be strong.

And he had to trust his brother to do the same.

Nerissa huddled even closer, squeezing Bryson's hand. Bryson held his younger siblings tighter as the second boy from Eight took the stage, wearing a plain white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of black pants, a loose black tie, and a pair of shiny black shoes. The boy smiled nervously as he took a seat next to Constance, fiddling with the black and grey checkered cap that was now askew on his head.

"So, Louis," Constance smiled. "I understand you knew one of last year's tributes."

Immediately, the fidgeting stopped. Louis froze for a moment before finally mustering an answer. "I wouldn't say I _knew _him. I met him. Once. I had no idea he was a rebel. I mean, it's not like it's obvious. They're just like—" He caught himself before he could finish the sentence. "I mean…"

Constance leaned forward. "What? What do you mean?"

Louis hesitated for a moment. "It's just … he didn't seem like a bad person. He was kind to me. And when he volunteered at the reaping, I thought he was just being brave. And I suppose he was, in a way, but that bravery … it was misdirected. Misguided. Which is what makes it hard to tell if someone is a rebel, I suppose. Most of them don't realize that they're on the wrong side. They've just been misled."

"Misled."

Louis shrugged. "Sure. I mean, just look at last year's Victor. Avery. She went along with the rebels because she was swayed. Misled. Misguided. But once she realized the truth of what was happening, she changed her mind. And that's the opportunity we've been given this year in District Eight – the chance to show that we've changed our minds. We're not going to rebel anymore."

Bryson nodded a little. Not a bad act. And, chances were, it wasn't _all _an act. In a way, Louis was speaking for all of them – for all of District Eight. None of them wanted to repeat what had happened the year before. They just wanted to move on. To go back to the way things were.

Because, as bad as the Games were, it could always be worse.

Soon, Louis' time was up, and Jediah took his place, though, for a moment, Bryson wasn't sure it was, in fact, Jediah – or that there was actually anyone under the ridiculous costume. He was wearing a pair of red rain boots, bright yellow-and-green checkered pants, a striped yellow shirt, and a bright red bowtie. On top of it all, there was a colorfully patched, multi-colored jacket and a long, striped scarf. Perched on top of his head was a bright red, tall, flat-topped hat with a bright gold tassel.

Nerissa giggled a little. Even Rogelio was smiling a little at the silly outfit. The audience in the Capitol was laughing, but Jediah was taking it all in stride, grinning as he took a seat next to Constance. Constance made a show of blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in. "Well, Jediah, that's quite the outfit you've got there."

Jediah smiled. "It certainly is. I'm not really sure what the stylists were going for, but I figured they know best. Maybe it's a hint – maybe the arena's a giant fabric factory or a circus or something." He shrugged. "Or maybe they were just having some fun. That _is _the point of this, after all."

Constance grinned. "It is, indeed. And it's good to see a tribute who's not afraid of having a little fun. Is that why you volunteered?"

"You mean, could I just not stand to see my brother having all the fun?" Jediah's smile faded a little. "No. Bryson, he … he would probably be the first to say that I shouldn't have done it. That he should be here, instead. But it's just the four of us now – Bryson, Rogelio, Nerissa, and me. If one of us is going to be sitting here … it should be me. And since I _am _here … well, I might as well enjoy it."

Constance nodded sympathetically. "And what part would you say you're enjoying the most?"

"My allies," Jediah said without hesitation. "Adelia already said it, but we've got a good group. I would trust them with my life, and I think – or, at least, I'd _like _to think – that they would do the same." He leaned back in his chair, smiling. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

Bryson swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Jediah was giving him too much credit. If he hadn't wanted Jediah to take his place – if he had thought it should be him in the Games, instead – then why hadn't he done anything? Why hadn't he tried to stop Jediah from stepping forward at the reaping? Why hadn't he said something?

Bryson shook his head. There was a simple answer. As much as he loved his brother, as much as he knew that he was supposed to protect him, as much as he knew he shouldn't have let his little brother risk his life for his sake … he didn't want to die.

And this year, more than any other, the Games meant death.

* * *

_"What I am is trapped. And I've been trapped for so long that I don't even remember what it feels like to be free."_


	30. Interviews: Understand

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note:** Yep, I'm still alive. Hopefully, the length of the chapter will make up for the fact that it is, once again, late. Also, now I should (really) be able to get back into the swing of things. Partly because homecoming and all of that is out of the way, (we won 55-0!) but also because the interviews are finally over!

Also, since the interviews are now over, if you haven't voted yet in my sponsor poll, please do so soon, as a new poll will be posted with the next chapter (which will hopefully be coming much more quickly than this one). Just one more chapter (after this one) before the Games!

I'm so excited!

* * *

**Interviews  
****Understand**

* * *

**Joachim Vinson, 27  
****Friend of Thane Hayer**

He would never understand it.

Joachim drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting. Part of him hadn't wanted to watch the interviews at all. What was the point? What was the point of any of it – the parades, the costumes, the lights? Why dress the tributes up like kings and queens now when they would be thrown into the arena to kill each other less than twenty-four hours later?

Especially this year. Especially with so many tributes. Did they really expect the audience to remember more than a few? And would those few – the ones who happened to do well in the interviews – really be the ones who deserved the sponsors' attention in the Games? One had nothing to do with the other – not really. How often did the tribute who made the biggest splash in the interviews really win the Games?

Not that he had ever paid much attention to the interviews before. Not really. He'd never had a reason to. He'd known one or two people who had been in the Games – but, even then, only distantly. A boy a few grades older than him in school. A girl who occasionally worked the same field as him. No one he had been close to.

Until now.

Thane probably wouldn't have said they were close, Joachim knew. But Thane didn't really get close to anyone. Still, they talked. They were friendly. They were more than acquaintances, certainly. He was probably the closest thing Thane had to a friend – at least one who was still alive.

Which probably meant he was obligated to at least watch the interviews. Hope that his friend would make a good impression. Joachim smiled a little at the thought. Unless Thane's mentor had been able to work some sort of miracle, the best he could hope for was not offending the audience. Charming them was out of the question. Which made the whole thing rather pointless.

And yet here he was, watching as the first girl from Nine took the stage, wearing an elegant white dress that draped down to her feet. She had beige sandals to match, and her hair was tied up in a bun, a few strands dangling down around her face. She glanced around at the crowd as she took a seat next to Constance, her expression blank. Whether she was going for a tough angle or was simply trying not to look too frightened, Joachim wasn't sure.

At least, not until she started speaking. "So, Sariya," Constance began, "we've seen quite a few tributes so far tonight. What are your thoughts on the extra tributes and how that might affect the odds this year?"

Sariya shrugged. "Sure, there are almost double the number of tributes. But District Nine has double the number of tributes we usually do. So I'd say our chances are about the same. Better than some, even – some districts didn't get to send any extra tributes."

"Didn't get to send them," Constance repeated. "So you see this as an opportunity."

"For some people, sure," Sariya agreed. "Doesn't make much difference for me; I'd be here, anyway."

"But for your district partners?"

"I'd say it's an opportunity, yes. It's a chance at something better. A chance to do something that really matters, something we'll be remembered for. How many people have a chance like that?"

_About twenty-four each year._ Joachim leaned back in his chair, wondering if anyone in the Capitol actually believed all that 'opportunity' nonsense the tributes kept spewing. Was there anyone in the Capitol who actually bought the notion that the tributes _wanted _to be there? Were they really that stupid?

Maybe they were. Maybe they were all as dumb as the tributes seemed to think they were. After all, they kept watching, year after year, listening to more of the same drivel and flattery and lies. Maybe they really _couldn't _tell the difference.

Joachim shook his head, hoping he never had the chance to find out for himself. Well past reaping age himself, he didn't have to worry about meeting the sort of people responsible for these festivities. He didn't have to worry about impressing some bird-brained sponsor with a well-turned phrase or a painfully fake smile.

He wished Thane didn't have to, either.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and Thane took her place, wearing a dark blue suit, black tie, and shiny black shoes. A small smirk played on his face as he took a seat next to Constance

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Thane, care to share your opinion on the extra tributes this year and what that might mean for District Nine's odds?"

Thane leaned forward a little. "You do learn math here in the Capitol, right?"

Constance looked flustered for a moment, but then nodded. "Yes, of course we learn math."

Thane shrugged. "Then it's pretty obvious what it means for the odds. Double the tributes, and each tribute's chances are cut in half. It's that simple."

"So the fact that District Nine has two extra tributes—"

"Means absolutely nothing. I don't care about District Nine's chances. I care about _my _chances. And my chances aren't helped at all by the fact that I've got two extra district partners. I don't see how that's an advantage – or an opportunity."

_Damn it_. Joachim shook his head as the interview continued, and Thane dug himself in deeper. The problem was, of course, that he was right. If anything, two extra district partners hurt his own chances. Divided his mentor's attention. Spread the sponsors even more thinly. But that wasn't what the audience wanted to hear. They wanted to see confidence. They wanted to see optimism.

They didn't want the truth.

* * *

**Kalen Lanhart, 17  
****Brother of Myrah Lanhart**

He wished he didn't understand it.

Kalen scooted closer to his parents on the couch as the boy from Nine kept going. Refusing to play along. Refusing to play the optimistic, cheerful tribute for the sake of the cameras. For the sake of the audience.

But it wasn't just about the Capitol audience. That was what most people didn't understand. Sure, the Capitol wanted to see confident, upbeat tributes … but, on some level, so did the districts. They wanted to believe that their sons, their daughters, their brothers and sisters had a chance. But they couldn't believe it unless the tributes themselves at least pretended to believe it. Just for a few moments.

Because that was all it took. A few moments were enough to give people hope. To make them believe that maybe – just maybe – their loved one would be the one to make it home. And that hope was enough to keep their anger in check. That hope was enough to shift the blame away from those who were truly responsible. If the tributes all pretended that they had what it took to make it home, then, when twenty-three of them inevitably died, it wasn't really the Capitol's fault. The tribute in question simply hadn't tried hard enough. Been strong enough or lucky enough.

It was sick. It was twisted. But it was necessary in order to keep the Games going. He hated that he understood it, but it made sense. Too much sense.

Kalen clenched his fists. Maybe they were fooling everyone else. But not him. If Myrah didn't make it home, he wouldn't blame her. He would never blame her. It wasn't her fault. None of this was her fault.

It was theirs. The Capitol's. The Gamemakers'. The president's. It was their fault. And theirs alone.

Kalen shook the thought from his head. It was dangerous even to think like that. After last year, the Capitol would be on full alert. The Peacekeepers would be watching them – the tributes' families. Watching for any hint of rebellion.

He wouldn't give them any. Not with his sister's life at stake. Not when he knew it wouldn't do any good. And what good would it do to blame the Capitol? Everyone knew they were really to blame. They were simply too afraid to say it out loud.

He was just as afraid, of course. After the executions last year, everyone was. No one would say what they were all thinking – that this was all unfair. Cruel. Wrong.

Because anyone who said it would be dead.

Finally, the boy's time was up, and Myrah took the stage, wearing a dark green floor-length dress and dark grey flats. A matching dark green veil was drawn up over the top of her head. She was smiling confidently as she took her place next to Constance.

"So, Myrah," Constance beamed. "Your district partners are certainly … interesting."

She'd opened the door, Kalen realized. All Myrah had to do was walk through. Insult her district partner for his pessimism and the other for her indifference. It would be so easy.

But she didn't. She simply smiled. "They certainly are. I can't say we really hit it off, but one of the good things about the number of tributes this year is your choices aren't as … limited as they would be in a normal year. More tributes means more options."

Constance leaned forward a little. "I see. And what do you think of the options you've been given?"

"I think I've made the right choice," Myrah answered vaguely. "I think my allies and I are a good match – both for them and for me. It's not all about allies, certainly, but I would say they're pretty important."

"I would certainly agree," Constance nodded. "But you're right; it's not all about allies. What would you say is the most important thing?"

Myrah thought for a moment. "Not to give up. There are so many of us this year, it would be easy to dismiss some of us. Easy to give up on us." She smiled, turning towards the cameras. "But I'm not giving up, so you shouldn't give up on me, either."

Kalen swallowed hard. That last bit had been meant for him, he knew. His sister knew him better than he realized sometimes. She knew that he would see her chances for what they really were. And she was trying to give him hope.

He almost wished it would work.

Too soon, Myrah's time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a light pink knee-length dress, white stockings, and light pink high heels. A wide-brimmed, cheery white hat sat on her head, and she smiled warmly as she took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled back. "So, Melody, we've heard quite a few varying opinions this evening. What would you say is the most important thing once you're in the Games?"

Melody adjusted her hat a little. "I would say the Games are the most important thing in the Games."

Constance cocked an eyebrow. "Could you tell us a little more about what you mean by that?"

Melody shrugged. "Sure. Once you're in the arena, I imagine – and I'm only guessing, because obviously I haven't been in the arena yet – it's easy to lose track of what's really going on. To get so focused on survival, on keeping yourself alive, that you forget it's a game. And that all you really have to do is play it well enough, and you'll get through it."

"And you think you have what it takes to 'play it well enough'?"

"I hope so, Constance," Melody nodded. "I don't think any of us really _know _right now – not even the Careers – how good we're going to be at playing the Games. But tomorrow we'll all find out. I just hope I'm up to the task."

Kalen shook his head. She made it sound so simple. Play the Game well enough, and you'll get out alive. But even tributes who played the Game well didn't always make it out. Because only one tribute could. Just one.

One out of forty-six. Kalen wrung his hands together as the interviews continued. Forty-six tributes. Only one of them could come home. Was it really going to be Myrah?

All he could do now was hope.

* * *

**Asher Harlow, 16  
****Boyfriend of Beckett Furlan**

Why didn't they understand?

Asher ran his fingers nervously along the arm of the chair. His mother and father sat beside him, completely calm. Relaxed. They knew how much Beckett meant to him, but, still, they couldn't help being grateful. Grateful it wasn't their son going into the arena.

Asher almost wished it was.

Almost. But not enough. Not enough to volunteer when he'd had the chance. Not when Beckett had a better chance of coming home than he ever would. Beckett had worked on the ranch most of his life. He was stronger. Harder. More prepared than Asher would have been. Volunteering for him would have been suicide. At least Beckett had a chance.

But only a chance. Only one tribute would make it out of the arena alive. One out of forty-six. Beckett had a better chance than he would have, but there was no guarantee. No certainty.

And nothing he could do one way or the other.

That was the worst part – the helplessness. Beck would be in the arena tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do to help him. Nothing he could say – nothing _anyone _could say – that would make it better.

But other people didn't understand that. _He _hadn't understood it – not until this year. Everyone was always worried at the reaping that the name called might be theirs. Relieved the moment they didn't hear their own name. Asher had never imagined that anything could be worse than hearing his own name called.

He still wasn't sure whether this was better or worse.

Finally, it was District Ten's turn, and the first girl took the stage, wearing a dark blue-grey dress, grey stockings, and black high heels. She smiled sweetly as she took her seat next to Constance, then turned towards the audience and gave a small wave.

Constance grinned back. "So, Calantha, what's been the most exciting part of your time in the Capital so far?"

"The people, definitely," Calantha answered without hesitation. "Everyone I've met is so supportive. It's as if everyone's already rooting for me. I just hope I can give them what they want to see."

Constance nodded. "And what's that? What do you feel audiences most want to see?"

"Someone who's not afraid. Someone who's willing to do what has to be done in order to win. Someone who's ready for whatever the Gamemakers have planned for us – or, if not ready, then able to adapt to it."

"And you believe you're that sort of tribute."

Calantha smiled. "I know I am. And, come tomorrow, the rest of Panem will know it, too."

Asher shook his head. 'What has to be done.' The girl didn't seem to want to say it – what they all knew the words meant. A tribute who was willing to kill. Willing to murder as many other teenagers as it took in order to come home.

But if she wasn't up to it – if she didn't even want to say it onstage – then maybe that was a good thing. She was going to die, after all – she had to, if Beckett was going to make it home. The less prepared his opponents were – even his district partners – the better.

Asher swallowed hard. The thought made him sick. But the thought of Beckett never coming home, the thought of him dying in the arena – that was even worse. And if Beckett did make it back, then none of the rest would matter. The fighting. The killing. The danger. It would all be in the past.

At least, he hoped it would. But, then again, District Ten didn't exactly have the best track record of Victors who had dealt well with their Games. Presely was rarely seen in the district, but everyone knew she had refused a house in Victors' Village, that she spent most of her time in the fields with her sheep. Tess had gone into a coma from the shock of her Games and hadn't recovered for almost twenty years.

And Glenn – his Games were so long ago. Back when a tribute had a legitimate chance of winning simply by hiding and avoiding the other tributes until they all killed each other. Did that even count? Maybe, but it certainly wasn't going to help Beckett much.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and Beckett took the stage, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a sleek black suit vest, and a bright red tie. He was grinning broadly as he took a seat next to Constance.

"So, Beckett," Constance began. "Your district partner seems to have a pretty firm idea of what the audience wants to see in a tribute. Do you agree with her?"

Beckett shrugged. "Yes and no. She's not wrong. The audience wants to see tributes who are willing to kill, tributes who can adapt to the arena … but, by the second or third day, that describes pretty much all the tributes who are left. So, once it gets to that point, what separates a tribute from a Victor?"

"What, indeed," Constance nodded. "I take it you have some ideas."

"That I do. A Victor has to be someone who's willing to take the initiative. Most tributes will be willing to kill if they're driven together, if they're given no other choice. It's one thing to fight and kill when you're being forced to. It's quite another to put _yourself _in that position. And that's what I intend to do."

"I see. And that doesn't bother you?"

Beckett smiled a little. "Why should it? We see it on our screens every year. Now that it's me up here, instead … no, it doesn't bother me. It's just the way the Games are."

Asher fought back the lump in his throat. The thought bothered _him_. But if Beckett was disturbed, he was doing a good job of hiding it. He kept smiling along with Constance until his interview was over. Asher had no doubt he was as nervous as anyone else. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he kept up the act. That the audience believed it.

All that mattered was that Beckett came home.

* * *

**Rissa Valleso, 46  
****Mother of Indira Serren**

Everyone said they understood.

Rissa held her husband Corinn and her son Auron close. It was the first time, it seemed, that they'd been alone since the reaping. The first time she hadn't been surrounded by sympathetic looks, promises that everything would be all right from those who wanted to say something kind, or tense silence from those who simply didn't know what to say. Most of them meant well – trying to encourage her, to assure her that Indira had a good chance of coming home. Trying to be supportive. Trying to understand.

But none of them understood – not really. How could they? Until she'd heard Indira's name at the reaping, she hadn't understood herself. She had never known anyone in the Games – not well, at least. She'd made it through her own reapings untouched, as had her brothers and sisters. Auron had made it through his. It was Indira's last year. She was supposed to be safe.

She _could_ have been safe, if not for what had happened the year before. If not for the extra tributes.

And Indira was supposed to be grateful. To smile and laugh and tell the Capitol audience how much she loved them. Because that was the only way she might make it home. Rissa had no doubt that Indira would try her best to give a good impression. She would have done the same thing. Would have said anything. Would have done anything.

But she wasn't the one onstage. She wasn't the one who would be in the Games tomorrow. Indira was.

Rissa swallowed hard as the boy from Ten finished his interview. Only one more tribute, and then it would be Indira's turn. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready. But, at the same time, she wished it would be done sooner. With every tribute, the Capitol audience was surely getting more restless. They were so near the end now. Would they even be paying attention?

Corinn wrapped an arm around Rissa's shoulders as the younger girl from Ten took the stage, wearing an elegant yellow dress streaked with red and coral, almost like a sunset. On her feet were pale yellow slippers, and a matching floppy yellow hat hid her shaven head. The girl managed a smile as she took a seat beside Constance.

Constance smiled. "So, Elizabet, it seems your district partners have some differing opinions, so maybe we should hear yours: What do _you_ think the audience is looking for in a Victor?"

Elizabet thought for a moment, then answered quietly. "I don't think they're looking for just one thing. I don't think the Games produce just one kind of Victor. Just look at the diversity we've got even in our three Victors in District Ten. None of them won the same way. Why should we expect this year to be the same as any of the others?"

"So are you saying that the Victors from District Ten have nothing in common?"

Elizabet shook her head. "Not necessarily. Just that they aren't identical. There are some things, I think, that kept them all alive during the Games. A few common threads."

Constance nodded along. "Anything in particular?"

Elizabet hesitated. "Knowing when to fight … and when not to fight. Understanding that there's no shame in backing down and fleeing or even hiding from a stronger opponent. They all knew themselves well enough to know what they could handle, and they acted accordingly." She smiled a little. "I hope to prove I'm capable of the same."

Rissa squeezed Corinn's hand a little tighter. They both knew that would be a struggle for Indira – not charging into things head first, not stepping into a fight she had no chance of winning. She had never been one to back down or take the easy way out. Certainly she had never been one to hide.

And they had no reason to think she would start now.

Soon, Elizabet's time was up, and Indira took her place, wearing a floor-length, dark red dress with ruffles from the waist down. She walked slowly – trying not to fall, Rissa was sure, in the dark red high-heel shoes she was wearing. A bright red cap sat atop her head, and she was grinning at Constance as she took a seat.

"So, Indira," Constance began with a smile. "What do _you _think it takes to be a Victor in the Games?"

Indira shrugged. "I think Elizabet was on the right track. There's not one simple thing that sets a Victor apart. And everyone is looking for … something different."

"And what would you be looking for?"

Indira leaned forward a little. "I remember six years ago, watching the Games. The year Presley won – I was rooting for her from the start, and not just because she was from my district. I saw something – something in the way she chose Tess as her mentor, the way she befriended those two mutts. She was playing by the rules, of course, but she was doing it in her own way. And I think, in the end, that's one thing that makes a tribute a Victor – being willing to break the mold and do something … unique. Memorable."

"And do you have something unique and memorable planned?" Constance asked.

Indira smiled teasingly. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

Rissa allowed herself a small smile. Whether Indira really had something planned, or whether she was just trying to make it _seem _like she did, Rissa wasn't sure. But she wouldn't be surprised if her daughter already had a plan. An ambitious – and possibly dangerous – plan.

She would just have to wait and see.

* * *

**Shiloh Ingram, 17  
****Brother of Elani Ingram**

No one seemed to understand.

Shiloh blinked back the tears in his eyes as the last girl from Ten finished her interview. Elani would be next. And he wasn't ready. He could never be ready. How could anyone be ready for this?

Everyone was trying to be encouraging. His friends at work, everyone who saw him in the market or in the square. They all wanted to help. They all wanted to be supportive. But none of them understood – not really.

They didn't know his sister.

His sister, who had taken time at the reaping to comfort her two younger district partners, even though she had been terrified herself. His sister, who had almost certainly formed an alliance with them by now. His sister, who never turned her back on someone once she'd made a commitment.

His sister, whose loyalty would get her killed.

Shiloh glanced at his parents. They were trying not to think it. Trying not to see it. Not that he blamed them. He wished he didn't see it. Wished he could blindly believe – if even for a little while – that his sister was coming home. But he knew her too well. Understood her too well.

Because he would have done the same thing.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, Shiloh knew. If his name had been called, he would have been the one comforting those two little boys. Promising to protect them. Trying to keep them safe.

He wouldn't survive the Games, either.

But he wasn't the one _in _the Games. Not this year, at least. One more year. One more year, and he would be safe from them forever.

But Elani would never be safe again. This night – this night that was almost over – was the last one where she would be safe. And, even now, she wasn't truly safe. What she did now – what she said – could have an effect on the Games. These next few minutes could help her. But they could also condemn her.

Shiloh just hoped she wouldn't do anything reckless.

His fears seemed confirmed as Elani took the stage. Her outfit seemed normal enough – a light blue dress with a lacy white collar, white stockings, and black buckled shoes. But the first thing that caught his eye was her hair – or, more accurately, that it wasn't there. Her head had been shaven – quite clumsily, it seemed – just like one of the extra tributes. What had she done to warrant that?

Constance seemed just as curious. "So, Elani, what can you tell us about this?" she asked, motioning in a circle around her own head.

Elani smiled warmly. "It was Philus' idea, really. The three of us – Philus, Pan, and me – are allies. So we thought we ought to look like it. Like equals."

Shiloh hid a smile. There was more to it than that, he was sure. More than simply wanting to appear as equals before the camera. More likely, she and Philus hadn't wanted their third ally to feel different. To be alone. They were simply being kind.

And while kind wasn't the most useful thing to be in the Games, it was better than what he had feared when he first saw her shaven head. Better than the idea that she had done something – something rebellious – and those in charge had decided to retaliate by making her seem like one of the extras. One of the replacements. At least this way, it had been her choice.

A choice that, hopefully, wouldn't paint her as a rebel.

"Equals," Constance repeated. "So you believe you are, then – believe the three of you are equal? Believe you all have an equal chance of winning?"

Elani bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable. "I … I'm not sure about an equal chance of winning. Obviously, there are some tributes who are better prepared than others. Some tributes who would seem to have a better chance. But I would hope that – once we're in the Games, at least – we'll all have a … more equal playing field."

"More equal than…" Constance prompted.

Elani hesitated for a moment. "All right. More equal than we've had. Now, I probably shouldn't complain, because I'm one of the lucky ones. One of the tributes the Gamemakers have been trying to favor. Better chariot outfits. Better training clothes. But the Games are supposed to be the one thing that makes us all equal. That brings us together as a nation. Older or younger, weaker or stronger, the Games are a constant. We can all die. But we all have a chance to live. And I just hope … I hope that's clear tomorrow in a way it hasn't been so far."

For a moment, Shiloh stared at the screen. Finally, though, he broke into a grin. She'd managed – for a moment – to twist his perception of the Games into something good. Something noble. Something that made people equal. They weren't, of course, but it might be enough to convince the Capitol audience that, yes, the replacement tributes did deserve the same chance as the others.

Shiloh shook his head. None of that would help Elani's chances, of course. She wasn't one of the replacements, after all. She could have kept her mouth shut, kept her hair long, and continued to take advantage of the Capitol's favor. But that, in her mind, simply wasn't fair.

He just hoped she wouldn't regret it later.

Soon, Elani's time was up, and the first boy took the stage, wearing a crisp navy blue shirt under a cream-colored suit. An ivory-colored cluster of feathers embedded with sapphires sprouted from the breast pocket. Black wingtip shoes finished the outfit, but Shiloh's attention was on his head, which was shaved like Elani's. The boy carried a small notepad and pen, smiling shyly at Constance as he took a seat.

Constance smiled agreeably, giving the end of her own hair a twirl as she eyed Philus' head. "I see you share your district partner's sentiments about the Games being an equalizer."

Philus nodded, scribbling on his notepad for a moment. As he wrote, the words appeared on the screen. _Yes, I agree. The Games are good for the districts. Where else could a boy like me have a chance at a life of plenty?_

Shiloh nodded a little. The boy knew as well as anyone else, of course, that his chances were slim. But maybe he had a point. Maybe he had a better chance at a real life in the Games than he would have had in District Eleven.

Maybe. And maybe that would be enough to convince the audience. Because any help he received, of course, would also help his allies. Maybe someone in the audience would take pity on him.

Constance took the bait freely. "I take it your family isn't exactly wealthy back in District Eleven?"

Philus shook his head, scribbling a little more. _We're very poor, but at least we have each other. And if I make it home, we'll never have to worry about having enough ever again._

Constance nodded along. "That's the best thing about the Games, I think. Someone wins. One tribute is strong enough or clever enough or brave enough or lucky enough to walk away. Can you tell the audience why you think that tribute will be you?"

Philus blinked, confused. Constance had started her question before he'd fully looked up from his notepad. Philus hesitated a moment, then waved his hand in a small circle. Constance repeated the question. "Why do you think you'll be the one to win?"

Philus nodded his understanding, then smiled and jotted his answer down quickly. _I'm lucky, obviously. Would I be here if I wasn't? _

Shiloh smirked. Cheeky. Some of the audience was smiling and chuckling to themselves. Maybe that would be enough to help him.

Shiloh shook the thought from his head. The audience wasn't supposed to like _him_. They weren't supposed to feel sorry for _him_. They were supposed to like Elani. Any help Philus got, of course, would help his allies … but only for so long. Eventually, the little boy would have to die if his sister was going to come home.

But not yet. For a little while, at least, he could feel sorry for all of them. He could hope for their whole little alliance to do well – for a while. The longer they stayed together, the better their chances. But, deep down, he knew what they all knew.

It couldn't last forever.

* * *

**Asher Avenheim, 15  
****Brother of Shale Avenheim**

He hadn't really understood until now.

Asher huddled closer to his brothers as the six of them kept their eyes fixed on the screen. Beside him, his twin brother Raver held their youngest brother, Bale, tightly. Asher had his arms around Vren, while Rhodes sat tucked between the two twins. Only Karinth sat off to the side, silent, waiting. He was as helpless as the rest of them, of course. Maybe that was why he had closed himself off. How could he comfort his brothers when he had no comfort for himself?

Asher squeezed Vren even tighter. What right did he have to sit here, trying to comfort the others? This whole thing was partly his fault, after all. If his name hadn't been called…

Asher felt a hand on his shoulder. Raver. Silently telling him it wasn't his fault. He hadn't meant for his name to be called, after all. And he would never have dreamed of asking his older brother to volunteer in his place. Shale had done that on his own.

And the worst part was, he felt relieved. As bad as this was – as bad as the waiting, the hoping, the worrying was – he wasn't going to die. He wasn't the one going into the arena tomorrow. He was safe.

No matter what happened tomorrow, he would be safe.

He would owe Shale for that forever, he knew. No matter what happened now, he owed his life to his brother. But Shale had asked for only one thing when they had come to say goodbye. _Look after your brothers,_ he had said. That was the only thing he had wanted: for them to stay together. To protect each other. To keep each other alive.

So they would. He would. No matter what happened, they were still a family. All of them. Even if Shale didn't come back…

Asher blinked back his tears. He couldn't start thinking like that. Even if he knew – even if they all knew – that it was a possibility, they couldn't say it aloud. Not around their little brothers. They had already lost their parents. The idea that they might lose Shale, too … they couldn't bear it. Not yet.

Of course, the Games wouldn't wait until they were able to bear thinking about them. Even now, the minutes were ticking away.

Soon, the first boy's time was up, and the second younger boy took his place, wearing a simple tan suit, a plain white tie, and black shoes. A simple black cap covered his head, but, as he took a seat next to Constance, he removed the cap and set it in his lap.

Constance smiled knowingly. "Another gesture of equality there, Pan?"

The boy shrugged. "That, and my head was getting warm. These lights are bright!"

The crowd got a good chuckle out of that one, and Constance let them laugh it out before returning to the matter at hand. "Well, since Elani's already let it slip that the three of you are working together, perhaps you can tell us a little about the dynamic in your alliance."

Pan smiled a little. "Well, I don't think it was exactly a surprise that we're working together. The three of us really connected at the reaping. I would say we simply realized our chances were better together and decided to act accordingly."

_Our chances_. Asher fought back a twinge of guilt. It was so easy to feel sorry for the other three tributes. To want them to do well. They didn't deserve any of what was about to happen to them. But all three of them would have to die in order for Shale to come back home.

Which was the worst part of the Games, in the end. With the exception of the Careers, none of the tributes wanted to be there. None of them deserved to be there. None of them deserved to be brutally killed, and none of them deserved to be turned into killers. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

But Constance seemed oblivious to that fact, and Pan, at least for the moment, was successfully ignoring it. "And what do you think of your chances together?" Constance asked.

Pan shrugged a little. "Well, the way I see it, each of us got a four in training. Put those three fours together … and you get a twelve, which is the highest score you can get. I'd call that pretty good odds."

Asher smiled a little. Maybe they had each gotten a four, but Shale had gotten an eight all on his own. He could probably beat at least two of his younger district partners in a fight – maybe all three together.

Asher swallowed hard. He didn't want to think about that – about the fact that his brother might have to kill the kids who had been onstage before him, or the two who would come after. It would have to happen, he knew, if Shale was going to come home. But that didn't make it any easier to think about.

Soon, Pan's time was up, and Shale took the stage, wearing a simple black suit: black shoes, black socks, black pants, black shirt. Only a dark grey tie broke the pattern. A simple black bandanna circled his head, and he made no move to remove it as he took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled back. "So, Shale, we've heard a lot about equality from your district partners – having a level playing field, everyone having a chance. Do you buy it?"

Shale shook his head. "It's a lovely sentiment, Constance. And I can see why some tributes would want to believe it. But if I want to go home – and I do, more than anything – then I can't go into the Games believing that everyone's got an equal chance. That I only have a one-in-forty-six chance of coming out alive. I have to think about doing everything I can to make sure I have a _better _chance than the other tributes … even my district partners."

Constance nodded a little. "I think we can all understand that, Shale. So what are some things that you think give you a better chance?"

Shale leaned forward a little. "My allies, for one. I don't want to give too much away, of course, but I can assure you my allies and I didn't end up together because of how well we connected at the reaping."

Constance smiled. "So what _did_ bring you together?"

"Mutual benefit. We have a better chance together – for a while, at least. Maybe it's not a popular thing to say during interviews, but we all know alliances don't last forever in the Games. As long as we can help each other, we will. And when the time comes … we'll do what has to be done."

Asher shifted uncomfortably. So Shale was already thinking about having to kill his allies. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would make it easier when the time came. But the thought of his brother killing an ally – killing _anyone, _really – still made Asher uneasy. He had always looked up to Shale. Now…

Asher shook his head. It wasn't as if Shale was a bloodthirsty monster. Not as if he had wanted this. He was only doing what he had to do to survive. If he came home – no, _when _he came home – he wouldn't be a monster. He would still be Shale.

And they would still be brothers.

* * *

**Kellen Nash, 14  
****Friend of Barry Zephir**

He still didn't understand.

Kellen leaned forward a little on the couch he shared with his parents, two uncles, an aunt, and three older cousins. They were all huddled together, all grateful this year's reaping had left their family untouched. He hadn't been picked. His cousins hadn't been picked. This was his cousin Tray's last year. And he hadn't been picked.

Barry had.

It still didn't make sense. Kellen was a year younger, but his name had been in the reaping bowl nine times. Some of his cousins had their names in fifteen or even twenty times. There were other kids – older Seam kids with larger families – whose names were in thirty times. Even forty.

Barry's name had been in the bowl four times. The minimum for his age. Barry's family never had to take tesserae. And certainly the mayor's daughter only had her name in the bowl the required five times. Kellen's name was in as much as the two of them put together.

But it hadn't mattered.

He was safe, and they were in the Games. It didn't make sense. Maybe it wasn't fair. But there was a part of him that was … no, not glad. But grateful. Relieved. He wasn't going into the Games. It wasn't him.

But it was his friend. A boy he had known since they were little. Maybe it wasn't as bad. Maybe it could always be worse. But that didn't stop it from hurting. Didn't stop him from wishing that the escort had picked someone else. Someone he didn't know.

Someone he wouldn't miss.

Kellen fought back the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to lose Barry. But did his friend really have a chance? In forty-one years, District Twelve had one Victor. One. Did he really have any reason to think that Barry would be the second? That this would be the year District Twelve broke their pattern?

Maybe. Maybe because of last year. While every other non-Career District – and even one Career district – had rebelled, Twelve had remained loyal. More out of fear of punishment than out of true loyalty, but, apparently, that was enough. They hadn't been required to send extra tributes. Maybe that loyalty would earn them a bit of favor in the Games, as well.

Maybe.

Finally, it was District Twelve's turn, and the girl took the stage, wearing a light red dress with yellow undertones and flecks of glitter. Ruby red shoes matched the headband that swept her hair back from her face. She smiled calmly – almost confidently – as she took a seat beside Constance.

Constance smiled right back. "So, Eleanor, it seems this year is a special one for District Twelve. I understand your father is the mayor. He must be very proud."

_Furious, more likely_, Kellen knew. The whole district had seen the way he'd reacted at the reaping, once the cameras were gone and he was no longer worried about saving face in front of the Capitol. They'd seen how he'd practically threatened Brennan. Kellen hadn't heard exactly what he'd said, but the message was clear: he wanted his daughter back alive.

But that was something that no one could guarantee.

"Oh, yes, he's very proud," Eleanor lied. "And I couldn't be happier. The opportunity to represent District Twelve in the Games is … unique, to say the least."

Constance nodded. "And it's an honor bestowed on only two of you this year. Would you like to say a few words about that?"

Eleanor smiled a little. "You mean about why we weren't required to send 'replacement' tributes. I should think it's fairly obvious. Our tributes last year didn't need replacing. They did their duty, and they did it fearlessly. I intend to do the same – with one important difference. I intend to come home alive. But if I can't … then you can be sure I'll go down fighting. Just like they did. Just like any loyal tribute would."

Constance smiled. "So you maintain that District Twelve is loyal?"

Eleanor shrugged. "I don't need to maintain anything. The tributes' actions last year proved it. Barry and I will prove it again this year. I don't need to sit here and assure you of our loyalty. I simply need to let our actions speak for us."

Kellen nodded. She was right. On the surface, District Twelve was as loyal as any other district. Whether that loyalty was born of devotion or fear … maybe that didn't matter in the end.

It certainly didn't seem to matter to Constance, who was still smiling as Eleanor's time ran out. Soon, Barry took her place, wearing an orange button-down shirt and a black tuxedo, well-shined black shoes, and a dark orange rose in one of his breast pockets.

Barry was grinning as he took a seat next to Constance. "I guess they decided to save the best for last."

Constance smiled back. "So you don't have any problems with being the last tribute onstage tonight, Barry?"

Barry shook his head. "Not a bit, Constance. I should probably get used to it, I suppose, since I mean to be the last tribute in the Games, too."

Constance nodded. "And why is that, Barry? What makes you so confident you'll emerge as this year's Victor?"

Barry shrugged a little. "History. District Twelve has a history of buckling down and doing what needs to be done. Like Eleanor said, last year's tributes did what was expected of them even when half the tributes decided not to fight. It's that sort of determination that's going to help me this year. This year isn't going to go to the flashiest or the strongest tribute. It'll go to someone who's in it for the long haul – someone like me."

Kellen smiled a little. Barry certainly sounded confident. And Kellen hoped he was right. Hoped that last year's events would work in District Twelve's advantage. Hoped that, along with Barry's determination, that would be enough.

But that was a lot to hope for.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 32  
****Victor of the 25****th**** Hunger Games**

Not bad at all.

Brennan smiled as Barry stepped off the stage. Both he and Eleanor had done quite well. They wouldn't be winning any sponsors based on their interviews alone, but it was a step in the right direction. Neither of them had completely wowed the audience – and neither of them could quite make up for the fact that forty-four tributes had come before the two of them and, by now, the audience was tired – but they hadn't done anything detrimental, either.

Brennan hadn't exactly stood out during his own interview, either, seventeen years ago. He had gone through the motions. Said what he needed to say. It wasn't until the Games that people had started to notice him.

And here he was. Alive. While the thirty-five others who had entered the arena with him were gone. Interviews were necessary, of course – and it was important not to say anything stupid or rebellious – but a tribute rarely won based on crowd appeal alone.

Brennan was about to stand up, ready to head back to the elevator, when another man suddenly walked onstage. Silas. His old mentor. The man who had helped him make it through his own Games alive.

The President of Panem.

It was immediately clear, of course, that his mentor was there as the latter. His face was deadly serious as he shared a few quite words with Constance, who immediately hustled offstage. Finally, President Grisom turned to address the crowd.

"Citizens of Panem, I am sorry – truly sorry – to cut the festivities short. But in the midst of our celebration, I received word of a tragic and senseless act of violence. Those of you in District Four already know the circumstances of this incident. Those of you who are unaware, I would ask you to turn your attention to the screen behind me."

Immediately, the back wall of the stage lit up with an image. Fire, tall and blazing, consuming a large building. Silas let the video play for a moment, then continued. "Who is responsible for this destruction, you might ask. I am sorry to tell you that the training center in District Four was set ablaze by none other than the district's own Victor, Misha Brimmer."

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Brennan glanced over at District Four's mentors. Naomi and Kalypso were whispering to each other, red-faced, while Mags and Bierce simply stared, shocked.

"It is with regret that I must announce that Misha was killed in the fire, along with a Peacekeeper who rushed into the blaze in an attempt to save Misha from his own handiwork. Panem will mourn their passing, and I have no doubt that the people of District Four will recover from this loss … but, in the meantime, measures must be taken. District Four has proven increasingly unstable, and, for their own safety, they must be protected from those among them who would wish them harm."

Immediately, the images on the screen changed. What little remained of the training center was being demolished. Peacekeepers collected piles of weapons – swords, bows, axes, tridents. All confiscated.

Silas didn't say another word. He simply turned and left the stage as the video kept playing. Soon, the training center was a pile of rubble. Peacekeepers confiscated weapon after weapon, mostly from teenagers who were probably students at the training academy. President Grisom never made an official declaration, but he didn't have to. The message was clear.

District Four's days as a Career district were over.

* * *

**President Silas Grisom**

They wanted more.

Silas glanced around the table at the members of his cabinet. Some looked angry; others were simply perplexed. These men and women, most of whom had served under President Snow, simply couldn't understand why he had simply confiscated District Four's weapons. Why he hadn't had Misha's family – cousins, distant relatives, whoever he had left – publicly executed. Why, for that matter, he hadn't had _anyone _executed. Snow would have killed at least a dozen people by now.

But what he had done ran deeper. The actions he had taken would have more lasting ramifications than a hundred executions. Most of them didn't seem to understand that. But Silas could see one man, at a small table in the corner, silently nodding along.

Silas shook his head. He hadn't come here for their approval. Soon enough, the Games would quench whatever bloodlust or thirst for revenge was driving them now. Soon, everything would be back to normal. With a few words, he dismissed the cabinet, with the exception of the man at the end of the table. "Eldred. Stay a moment, please."

Eldred Brand, a stocky, steely-eyed man in his mid-forties, turned. "What can I do for you, Mr. President?"

"Can you tell me why I didn't kill anyone?"

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"District Four. I could have executed Misha's family – whatever's left of it. I could have executed a few of the training academy's personnel for not keeping a closer watch on it. I could have executed whatever idiot let Misha near that much oil. Hell, I could have executed all four of the other Victors from Four just to prove a point." He sat down, his arms tucked behind his head. "So why didn't I?"

Eldred took a seat across from him, unintimidated. "Is this a test?"

"Yes."

"I have a family, Mr. President."

"So you believe I spared them out of compassion?"

Eldred shook his head. "No, Sir; that's not what I meant. I meant that my family is the reason I understand. My youngest daughter, Rylee, is seven years old. My son, Milton, is six years older. Rylee wants to do everything he does. Now, sometimes, my wife and I say no. Not because we don't want her to have fun, not because we don't trust her, but because we don't want her to hurt herself. She's not old enough to understand that there are things a thirteen-year-old can do that she can't.

"Well, last week, my little girl was out climbing with her brother and his friends. We've told her not to, of course, but she was convinced we were just being mean – until she fell and broke her arm." He shook his head. "Now, do you think I punished her for not doing as she was told?"

Silas shook his head. "I'd say the broken arm was punishment enough."

Eldred nodded. "Exactly. The consequences of her actions were bad enough. Anything else would have been redundant. Same situation in District Four. Confiscating their weapons and demolishing the training center was a natural consequence of their misuse. Anything else would have simply painted us as the enemy. Instead, Misha's the one in the wrong – the one who destroyed their district's status, the one who caused all the trouble. He's the misbehaving child; we're simply the parents trying to keep the districts out of trouble. We in the Capitol should see the districts as our children – to be led, nurtured, and, occasionally, disciplined – but never abused."

Silas smiled a little. "Did you ever share this insight with President Snow?"

"Do you think I'd be alive if I did?"

"I imagine not," Silas admitted. "President Snow didn't understand the difference between respect and fear. But I imagine you do."

"I'd like to think so, Sir."

Silas smiled. "Remind me, Eldred, what's your official title?"

"Sir?"

"Your position."

"I'm just the secretary, Sir. I keep recordings of the meetings. I file them. I listen. I watch." He shook his head. "Why?"

Silas grinned. "How would you like a new job?"

* * *

"_What I am is trapped. And I've been trapped for so long that I don't even remember what it feels like to be free. Maybe you can understand that."_


	31. Waiting

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note:** Yep, quick chapter this time. This is the sort of chapter that comes easily to me. And it's about half as long as those interview chapters, so there's that, too.

Also, the results of the sponsor poll are up on the blog. Congrats to Evander, Shale, and Septimus, who were your top three choices, and will be receiving a sponsor gift at some point during the Games (provided they survive the bloodbath).

New poll is up on my profile, this time asking who you think will make the final eight. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want _to see in the final eight. I know it's a bit early for this sort of poll, but I wanted to get some idea of where you think the tributes will place _before _they start dying off.

Lastly, thank you for your patience. I know I've been a bit slow with the interview chapters, but, now that the Games are about to begin, I should be able to pick up the pace. But, first, one last pre-Games chapter...

* * *

**Night Before the Games  
****Waiting**

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18  
****District One**

He had told them.

Inviticus leaned back in his chair, content. Jaime and Jade were in the other room, having a conversation of their own. Neither of them wanted to admit what they all knew: he had been right about District Four from the start. He had predicted their betrayal. The others had simply been too blind to see it. And now they were too proud to admit they had been wrong.

Except for Jasper, who had nothing to lose by conceding the argument. "Looks like you were right," he agreed at last. "District Four is going to be trouble. Now they'll be looking for any way to make up for what Misha did. Any way to prove their loyalty. You can use that, but be careful. If they know you don't trust them…"

"I haven't exactly kept it a secret," Inviticus pointed out.

"Then you need to be careful."

Inviticus shrugged. Of course. It was the Hunger Games. Everyone needed to be careful. Eventually, everyone was a target. Even the Careers.

Even him.

He was ready, of course. He had prepared his whole life for this. But still…

"Any last-minute advice?" he asked, earning a shocked expression from Jasper. It was the first time he'd actually _asked _for his mentor's advice. Jasper had offered plenty of it, of course, but always unasked-for. And chances were he already knew everything Jasper could tell him, but, still, a little extra encouragement couldn't hurt.

"Just remember your allies are necessary at first," Jasper offered. "Especially with this many tributes, you can't afford to go it alone at the start. I know you don't like some of them. But you can work with them. You can use them. For a while, at least."

Inviticus nodded. It was nothing Jasper hadn't said a dozen times before. But somehow it seemed a bit more real now. A bit more relevant, more immediate. There was no more training. No more practicing. Tomorrow it was real.

And he would be ready.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

She was ready.

Naella nodded politely towards Harriet as she headed for her room. Harriet nodded back, their shared message clear. Naella didn't need any last-minute advice. If there was something she didn't know by now, it was already too late. The best thing she could do now was get some rest, because there was no telling how long it might be before she would truly be able to sleep again.

Naella changed her clothes quickly and slipped between the covers of the last bed she would sleep in for days. Weeks. However long the Games lasted. With forty-six tributes, perhaps that would be longer than normal. But maybe not. The Twenty-Fifth Games, after all, had barely lasted a week, despite the twelve extra tributes.

A week. A week or two, and she could be back here. In a bed. Sleeping soundly. Safe and victorious. Or she could be dead. It was a possibility, of course. But not one she was going to lose any sleep over – certainly not now, when sleep was so important. If she was going to die, no amount of worrying now would change that. And if she wanted to live, the best thing she could do now was make sure she was well-rested, to give herself her best chance.

Her allies were probably still awake. Thinking. Deciding. Pondering the situation in Four and how it would affect the Games. But there was no point worrying about that now. Tomorrow, everything would change, anyway. Tomorrow, she would see what her allies had decided, and she would act accordingly. There was no point in worrying about something she couldn't change. She closed her eyes.

Sleep came easily.

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15  
****District Three**

He couldn't sleep.

Horatio turned over again in his bed, trying not to think. Trying not to dwell on what was coming. Trying not to question the choices he had made, the path he had decided to take. It was just another game, after all. Just another series of moves and gambits. Just another match.

But this was his life.

Finally, Horatio climbed out of bed and headed out to the main room, where Percival still sat on one of the couches, as if waiting for him. Horatio cocked an eyebrow. "Where are the others?"

"India and Aleron went to bed a little after you did," Percival shrugged. "Evander and Avery have been talking for at least an hour; Miriam went to check on them a little while ago." He smiled a little. "Can't sleep?"

"No," Horatio admitted.

"Neither could I, before my Games," Percival admitted. "Kept asking myself if I'd made the right choices. My allies, our strategy – I questioned everything."

"And what did you decide?"

"Nothing. The Games decided for me. I lost track of my allies in the bloodbath, and that was that. Point is, everything's going to change tomorrow, anyway. Whatever decisions you've already made … once you're in the Games, they're not that important. All that matters is staying alive – whether that means following your original plan or not."

Horatio nodded. "So all the planning, the preparation, the alliances … You're saying it's all pointless?"

"Not pointless, no. But you don't want to fall into the trap of thinking that what you've planned in advance is set in stone. That it's the only way to win. You have to be ready to adapt, to change your plans on a moment's notice based on the arena, based on what the other tributes do. Plans are important, but you can't let them control you."

Horatio nodded. "I think I understand."

* * *

**Kendall Rios, 18  
****District Four**

She didn't understand.

"Why would he do that?" Kendall fumed. "Why would he want to burn down the training center? Why would he do that to us? To the district?"

Auster and Naomi simply sat, listening to her tirade. On the other side of the room, Bierce and Kalypso chatted quietly with Jarlan, Imalia, and Mavina. Mags was in a corner with Brevin, who was doing his best to comfort her. Maybe Kendall should have been doing the same thing – trying to offer some comfort to Naomi. She had been Misha's mentor, after all. But right now, Kendall was too angry to even think about offering her comfort or help.

"We shouldn't have left him alone," Naomi admitted. "None of us wanted to; we should have listened to our instincts." She shook her head. "This one's on us – the four of us Victors. We failed him, and we failed the district. I'm just sorry the two of you are caught up in it now."

"You won't really close the training center, will you?" Auster asked, still in disbelief. "Not permanently, I mean. You'll rebuild it and reopen, won't you?"

Naomi shook her head. "Without any weapons? Without the Capitol's support? I don't see how we can. Unless…"

Kendall perked up. "Unless what?"

"If one of you wins – if someone from District Four is the next Victor – maybe that would be enough. Enough to raise support in the Capitol, to convince the president to change his mind. Silas knows he has to appear firm, but he's not unreasonable. We just need to give him a reason…" She trailed off. "I know it's a lot of responsibility for you, but—"

"—but it's what we were planning to do, anyway," Kendall finished. She was already planning to win. To be the next Victor. If that meant that District Four could remain a Career district, well, that was just the icing on the cake.

Maybe everything could still work out.

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18  
****District Five**

Everything was working out perfectly.

Liana glanced up at Harakuise. "Did you plan this?"

Harakuise cocked an eyebrow. "Plan what?"

"What happened in District Four. The president revoking their status as a Career district. You expect us to believe it's just coincidence that District Four is losing favor just as District Five is starting to become a Career district ourselves?"

Harakuise chuckled a little. "While I'm flattered you think I'm capable of such a scheme … no. This isn't my doing. I'm clever, not omniscient. No one could have predicted what Misha would do. He was a loose cannon. The fact that his shot ended up crippling District Four rather than another target – that was simply good luck."

"Luck," Liana repeated, a little disappointed. She'd been hoping for some sort of complex explanation of how Harakuise had manipulated the Victors, the Peacekeepers, maybe even the president himself, to make way for District Five's rise as a Career district. The idea that it was just chance was a bit anticlimactic.

"Luck," Harakuise confirmed. "Sometimes things just work out, Liana. No plans. No schemes. Sometimes things just happen without our interference or consent. But," he added with a smile, "it's up to us to take advantage of them."

"The other Careers," Liana realized. "They'll be distracted. Divided. We can use that."

Harakuise nodded. "Septimus is clever enough to realize the same thing. During the bloodbath, find him. Help him. Follow his lead, and the rest of the alliance will do the same." Harakuise placed a hand on her shoulder. "You can do this, Liana."

Liana looked up, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. She had always believed she could do this, of course, but to hear it from someone else was … unexpected. Liana smiled a little, then squeezed Harakuise's hand tightly.

"Thank you."

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

"I just wanted to say thank you."

Delvin smiled a little as Nicodemus looked up, surprised. Delvin was almost surprised himself – surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had truly thanked anyone – or had a good reason to. Nor had he expected to be grateful for anything just before the Games. But, still, he felt like he should say something, and, for whatever reason, _thank you _seemed right.

The other tributes had already gone to bed. Nicodemus had probably tucked them in himself, Delvin thought with a smile. There was no one to hear them. No one who would know that he had let his guard down for a moment. No one but his mentor.

"For what?" Nicodemus asked, genuinely confused.

Delvin took a seat next to his mentor. "For not pushing. When Paget suggested forming an alliance on the train, you could have pushed for it to be all of us. But you let us decide for ourselves, and you didn't stop giving me advice when I decided not to go along with the rest of the district's plan." He shook his head. "Thank you for doing your job, I guess."

Nicodemus smiled a little. "That's why I'm here."

Delvin nodded. "I guess that's what I meant. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad _someone's _here. I'm glad they didn't…" He trailed off, unsure.

"Glad they didn't kill me?" Nicodemus finished.

"Well … yeah. That, I guess," Delvin agreed awkwardly.

Nicodemus nodded. "I spent a lot of time this past year wishing they had. Wishing they'd finished the job when they had the chance. But now … I guess there's a reason they didn't. I'm still needed here. And that's enough."

Delvin nodded. That much, he could understand. He was needed, too. His sister, his mother – they were waiting for him. They needed him, the way the tributes needed Nicodemus. He had to make it back for them.

He was glad someone understood.

* * *

**Ciere Renole, 17  
****District Seven**

She was glad no one understood.

Ciere watched quietly as the other tributes slowly detached from the group and made their way to their own rooms. Audra was the first to decide rest would be more productive than sitting up and worrying. Then Domingo. Last of all, Fallon headed for her room, as well. Still, Ciere sat, watching. Waiting.

For what, she wasn't sure. There was nothing left to say. Nothing to do. Nothing that would change what was about to happen. What she was going to do. What she had wanted to do for years.

For the first time in her life, she had no doubts. No worries. No questions about what she had to do. What she was supposed to do. What she wanted to do.

For the first time in her life, the three were all the same thing.

"Are you all right?"

Ciere glanced up, surprised, as Hazel took a seat next to her. "Yeah, I'm all right. Why?"

Hazel shook her head, puzzled. "Well, most people aren't, the night right before the Games. I know I wasn't. Casper certainly wasn't. Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine," Ciere insisted, standing up and turning to go. "Worry about the others."

"The others already went to bed," Hazel pointed out.

Ciere shrugged. "Well, then worry about yourself. I'm sure you've got plenty of … mentoring things to do."

"Well, I suppose so, but—"

"Then you'd better get to it." She headed for her room. Hazel followed, ready to object. To try to help. To comfort her. But Ciere shook her head.

"Don't worry about me."

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

"Don't worry about me."

Baylor wrapped his arms around Kit as the two sat together on the couch. Kit shook his head, tears in his eyes. Silently pleading, begging for Baylor not to go. Not to die.

But neither of them could do anything to stop what was coming. Once the Games began, they would each do their part. But, for the next few hours, they were powerless. There was nothing they could do but wait.

"You should get some rest," Carolina suggested at last. "Both of you. Baylor, you're going to need all your strength tomorrow. And Kit, you won't be able to help him if you're too tired to think straight."

Baylor nodded, taking his cue. He hugged Kit, then Carolina, then Lander, who ruffled his hair a little before shooing him off to his room. Carolina followed, then quietly closed the door behind them. "Thank you … for everything you've done for Kit."

Baylor smiled a little. "You're welcome. I just wish there was something more I could do."

"There is," Carolina admitted.

Baylor cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Carolina shrugged. "What you're trying to do, anyway: win. I don't want to think about what it'll do to him if…"

"—if I die," Baylor finished, and Carolina nodded. Baylor forced a smile. "I'll certainly do my best."

Carolina turned to go, but then hesitated. "Baylor, there's something you should know. I promised Adelia I wouldn't tell anyone what she'd figured out, but … well, after what you've done for Kit, you deserve to know. And if she's right, it's not something you'd have an opportunity to use against her … not so soon before the Games. But maybe it'll help you."

Baylor smiled a little. He hadn't expected any reward for helping Kit – not really. But he certainly wasn't going to refuse information that could help him. "What is it?"

"It's about the extra tributes."

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

"It's about the extra tributes."

Melody nodded a little as Baylor explained. According to the mentors, tributes from separate districts generally didn't visit each other the night before the Games, but, officially, there was no rule against it. And if what Baylor was saying was true…

She listened to every word, then shook her head. "Is she sure?"

Baylor shrugged. "No one can really be sure about anything before the Games begin. But it makes sense. It fits with what's been happening so far. If she's wrong, well, then no harm done. But if she's right—"

"—then we need a plan," Melody agreed. "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know," Baylor admitted. "I just thought I should tell you … that maybe you'd have an idea."

She didn't. If Baylor was right … if Carolina was right … if Adelia was right. That was a lot of ifs. Could she trust them? Baylor, she was fairly certain she could trust. But Carolina wasn't even officially his mentor. Kit was. And Adelia had every reason to want to lead him astray. She didn't seem the sort, but that could be an act. It could all be a trick.

But could they ignore the possibility? It was the only lead they had, the only idea they had about what the arena might hold. What the Gamemakers might have in store. They couldn't just ignore it.

"Okay," Melody nodded at last. "I have an idea."

* * *

**Calantha Harlyn, 16  
****District Ten**

"I don't have any idea what I'm doing."

Calantha was surprised to hear herself admit it – even to her mentor. But she needed to tell someone. Anyone.

Tess smiled a little as she sat down next to Calantha. "Neither did I. Everyone thought I did. Thought I knew exactly what I was doing. So I pretended. Pretended to be strong. Pretended to be brave." She shook her head. "Do you know where it got me?"

"Home?" Calantha offered. She didn't want to mention the rest. What had happened to Tess after her Games. She didn't want to think about that.

But Tess simply shook her head. "Home, yes, but in a coma. The Games got to me, Calantha, more than I was willing to admit. More than I was willing to accept. Eventually, I broke free, but the Games took almost twenty years of my life. I'm still recovering. I don't want that for you."

"Neither do I," Calantha agreed. "But I also don't want to die."

"Those aren't the only two options," Tess pointed out. "The others … Glenn, Presley … They made it. Without snapping. Without breaking. Because they were willing to admit – at least to themselves – just how afraid they were."

"Afraid," Calantha repeated. That much, she could admit. She was certainly afraid. "And then what?"

"Don't hide from that. Use it. Your fear will keep you alive. It'll keep you sane. Grounded. If you pretend it's not there, it'll eat you up. Bur if you accept it … well, fear can be a powerful thing. A good thing. It can keep you going when you'd rather give up. It can drive you to do things you never thought you were capable of."

Calantha nodded slowly. "I just wish…"

Tess wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close. "I know."

And, for a moment, that was enough.

* * *

**Elani Ingram, 14  
****District Eleven**

For a moment, it was enough.

Elani looked around as the six of them sat together, silent. She, Philus, and Pan sat on one couch. Tamsin and Elijah shared a second. Shale sat alone in a chair across from them. "I guess this is it," Elani said quietly.

There wasn't much else to say. Her alliance had their plan. Shale had his. Come tomorrow, she, Philus, and Pan would be running away from the bloodbath as quickly as they could. She wasn't sure what Shale planned to do, but the chances of them seeing each other in the arena were slim.

Maybe that was for the best.

At last, Shale stood up slowly and extended his hand to Elani. "Good luck."

Elani looked up, surprised, but shook his hand as firmly as she could. "You, too." Then she watched silently as Shale shook Philus' and Pan's hands, as well, wishing each of them luck in turn.

It was a small gesture. But it was the friendliest he'd been since the reaping. Elani smiled warmly as the older tribute headed for his room. "Maybe he doesn't want to kill us, after all," she offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Elijah smiled a little. "Of course not. None of us go into the Games _wanting _to kill anyone – except the Careers, I suppose. But he will, if he has to. So once you're in the Games, get away from everyone. Including Shale."

Elani nodded. That had been the plan all along. Get away from the other tributes. Hide. Wait. Don't attack anyone unless they had some sort of advantage.

But they all knew that couldn't last forever.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

They all knew it couldn't last forever.

Barry glanced back and forth from Eleanor to Brennan. They both seemed so calm. So relaxed. Barry drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "So … now what?"

Brennan shook his head. "Now you get some rest, if you can. Pretend to, if you can't." He shook his head. "There's really not much else to do. Just one thing … one question. I usually make a small gift for the families of the tributes who … who don't come back. If there's anything in particular that you think your family would want…"

Eleanor shrugged. "They have everything they need."

Brennan nodded understandingly. "Barry?"

Barry hesitated. "No," he said at last. "I know what they want. Me. Back home alive. That's all they'd want, and that's what I want to give them."

Brennan nodded a little, as if that was exactly the answer he'd expected from both of them. "Just figured I'd ask. And if you change your minds … you know where to find me."

Barry smiled a little. "And what if we change our minds during the Games?"

Brennan shrugged a little. "Just say so. I'll be listening the whole time. Don't forget that. I'll help you all I can, but it works better if you remember that I'm trying to."

Barry nodded. That was a little bit of comfort, at least: the idea that Brennan would be watching. That his family would be watching. That so many people in District Twelve would be watching, waiting for him to come home.

He just hoped he wouldn't disappoint them.

Finally, Eleanor headed to her room, leaving Barry and Brennan alone. "Any last advice?" Barry asked quietly.

Brennan shook his head. "Trust your instincts. And don't trust anyone else."

Barry nodded. Brennan didn't say it, but the addendum was there. _Even Eleanor_. Even his district partner, eventually, would be trying to kill him. In the end, there was no one he could really trust. No one in the arena, at least. But, when it came down to it, could he trust Brennan?

He wished he could be sure.

* * *

**Mags Pharos  
****District Four Mentor**

She wished she knew why.

Mags brushed the tears from her eyes as Bierce came and took a seat by her. Naomi and Kalypso had already headed down to Alistern's bar. Alistern was gone, of course – he had died almost ten years ago – but the bar didn't really have any other name, so Alistern's it was. His legacy, even though he was long gone.

And now Misha was gone, too. Without a goodbye. Without an explanation. He had set fire to the training center, but why? What good had he thought it would do?

"Mags?" Bierce asked quietly. She knew why he was still here, of course. What he was waiting for. It was her job to escort the new mentors down to meet the others. Not an official job, of course, but one she had adopted after Aron Meldair's death during the Tenth Games.

But, for the first time, she didn't want to.

"He's gone, Bierce." Her own voice was so quiet. So weak. She didn't want to go find the other new mentors. Not new. Not like this. They'd all lost tributes before, but this was the first time they'd lost one of their own. A Victor. And it had happened so suddenly. No warning. No preparation. If Misha could die like that, were any of them really safe?

"Yes, he is," Bierce said softly. "But there's nothing we can do about that right now. The other mentors … they need you."

Mags shook her head. He was right, of course. She was one of the oldest Victors who still mentored. Vester, Ivy, Tania – they had all retired. The younger mentors would be looking to her. Her reaction to Misha's death could shape theirs.

Especially the younger ones. Avery. Kit. What sort of example did she want to set for them? Maybe this was the best thing she could show them: that, even in the midst of tragedy, the other Victors would be there for her. That they had to help each other. Be there for each other.

Because there was no one else who would.

"All right." Mags stood up slowly. "Avery. Kit. You. Who else is a new mentor?"

Bierce smiled a little. "There's one more."

* * *

**Balthasar Doyle  
****District Two Mentor**

They made a strange crowd.

Balthasar glanced at the four mentors outside his door. Mags. Bierce. Avery. Kit. All waiting for … something. "Can I help you?"

Mags smiled a little. "Actually, we're here for you. There's a bar downstairs that's a sort of … gathering place for the mentors during the Games. Would you like to join us?"

Balthasar returned her smile readily. "You had me at 'bar.' Lead the way."

The bar was large and warmly lit, filled with tables, stools, comfortable couches, and lots of screens. A stocky, steely-eyed man in his forties bustled about behind the bar. Balthasar nodded, watching as the others found their places in small groups scattered around the bar.

Mags was immediately surrounded by Hazel, Lander, and Carolina. Miriam and Glenn guided Avery and Kit to another set of couches. Elijah, Nicodemus, and Brennan formed a small circle around one of the lower tables, with Crispin, Tamsin, and Percival nearby. Tobiah and Vernon were drinking at the bar, where they had probably been for a few hours. Jade and Jasper sat across from Camden, with Harriet watching nearby. Bierce quickly joined Naomi and Kalypso, who were sharing a few drinks with Tess and Presley. Harakuise was chatting with the bartender.

Eloise was smiling as she approached Balthasar. "Glad you finally decided to get in on this mentoring thing?"

Balthasar glanced around the bar one more time, then nodded. "Actually, yes. I am."

"Buy you a drink?"

Balthasar smiled as they headed for the bar. "Why not?"

* * *

"_It beats what you're doing."_

"_What's that?"_

"_Waiting for something to happen."_


	32. The Same

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **We finally made it to the Games! I'm so excited!

Just a few things before we get started. First of all, I realize that during the bloodbath and immediately afterwards, it's sometimes hard to keep track of exactly where all the tributes are. Especially since there are forty-six of them, and especially since most of the focus in the bloodbath is on the tributes who are killing and dying, not the ones who simply (and sensibly) run away. So if you don't hear from a particular tribute in this chapter, don't worry. That doesn't mean they're dead. That doesn't mean I don't like them. It just means they weren't doing anything particularly exciting during the bloodbath. Which means they're alive.

So, to help alleviate a bit of the confusion over where everyone is and what everyone is doing, there's a map on the blog with arrows showing where every living tribute is. There's also an "Extra Goodies" section of the blog that will have things like arena outfits and mutts (once they make an appearance). But don't go check out the blog until after you read the chapter, because I'm going to keep both the map and the tributes section up-to-date as far as deaths go.

On that note ... Deaths. It's the Hunger Games. Tributes die. Some of them die in the bloodbath. Everyone knew that when they submitted. If your tribute happens to die here, I'm sorry ... but there was a 97.826% chance it was going to happen at some point, so please don't take it personally.

Lastly, if you haven't voted in my "final eight" poll, please do at some point. I'm going to leave it up for another chapter or two, and then a new one will go up. Just one thing, though. *Gets up on soapbox.* When you're voting for the final eight, please do actually vote for _eight _tributes. I say this every time, but there's always that person who only votes for seven, or five, or even one. I check the poll regularly and I'm pretty good with math, so, yes, I can tell. I realize you (probably) have a favorite, but voting for _only _that tribute for the final eight doesn't actually help anyone. It messes up my data, and, frankly, it annoys me. Now, I'm not quite petty enough to kill a tribute off sooner _just _because people only voted for them in the poll – especially a poll that's not going to have an effect on my decisions, anyway – but it certainly doesn't help their chances.

*Gets off soapbox.*

Okay. Now that that's out of the way ... One more thing before tributes start dying. Not everything in this chapter is entirely chronological. You'll see why once you start reading, but, just so you're aware ahead of time, the order in which tributes die as you're reading is not _quite_ the same as the actual placements. It's very close, but if you're looking for an exact placement, check out the blog. After you read the chapter.

I promise that'll make more sense once you start reading. So, on that note ... On to the bloodbath! Let's see some death!

* * *

**Bloodbath  
****The Same**

* * *

**Eldred Brand, 45  
****Bartender**

This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when President Grisom had offered him a new job.

Eldred watched as the Victors slowly trickled into the bar. Vernon and Tobiah had passed out somewhere around two in the morning and simply slept there. The others had been arriving on and off for the past half hour. After saying one last goodbye to their tributes and seeing them off, there wasn't much else to be done. Nothing except wait.

Fortunately, he was good at waiting.

Because that was his job now. Wait. Watch. Listen. Learn. He was now President Grisom's eyes and ears among the Victors. At least during the Games.

And after … that was the part the president hadn't been particularly clear on, but Eldred had a hunch that his performance during the Games would have some impact on his post-Games duties.

Eldred smiled a little at the thought. A new job wasn't something he'd ever expected – and he certainly hadn't expected the president himself to ask if he wanted one. Or to ask him anything, really. Nobody ever noticed the secretary.

Then again, nobody ever noticed the bartender, either.

Not that he'd ever wanted the attention. Not really. In politics – maybe in any sort of job – attention came with a price. But in politics it came with a particular sort of danger. The more noticed a person got, the more enemies they made. Any big move was an opportunity, but also a risk. He'd never been a risk-taker. He couldn't afford to be recklessly ambitious. He had a family to think of. And he had been happy where he was.

Or, at least, he had thought so.

But this – this wasn't a dangerous assignment. Not really. Any enemies he made here would be back in the districts in a few weeks. Not that he was expecting to make enemies. Ideally, they wouldn't really notice him at all.

A few of them already had, of course. Harakuise had immediately pegged him as one of the president's men, but Harakuise's loyalty was well-known in the Capitol, and he had been nothing but friendly the night before. Tobiah had spent his first few drinks complaining that Eldred must not be a proper bartender, but after a few more rounds, either Eldred had gotten the hang of it or Tobiah had been too drunk to care whether the drinks were perfect. He certainly didn't seem suspicious.

And aside from those two, the simple fact was that most of the mentors were too worried about their tributes to pay much attention to a bartender who didn't seem to know quite what he was doing.

Finally, all the mentors had arrived and found their places. Some were clearly old friends. Others had grouped up based on which tributes were allies at the moment. But there didn't seem to be any major splits, any groups who simply despised each other, any ill will – even between the Careers and the non-Careers. The Games had given them common ground, brought them together, united them.

Just as they were supposed to.

Silence filled the room as the image on the screen changed. So far, the focus had been on Constance, who had been providing an in-depth analysis of the tributes' scores and interviews, all of which, in a few moments, would mean nothing. Then, suddenly, mid-sentence, the image changed to that of an island, barely visible through the curtain of rain that seemed to surround it. Two hovercrafts appeared on the screen, descending towards opposite sides of the island. Soon, silence was replaced by confused murmurs. The arena usually wasn't shown until the launch. Until the tributes could see it themselves.

Instead, as the hovercrafts continued to descend, the screen split to show the inside of the two hovercrafts, each containing roughly half of the tributes. The hovercraft approaching the southern edge of the island contained most of the non-replacement tributes, each dressed in a loose-fitting khaki jumpsuit with their district number sewn in black on the left breast pocket. A pair of tall black boots finished the simple outfit.

Glancing at the images from the second hovercraft, which was approaching the northern shore of the island, Eldred was pleased to see that the replacement tributes had fared no differently. Aside from the fact that their jumpsuits were grey, their outfits were identical. That was enough, though, to make the two non-replacement tributes in their hovercraft stand out. The other two from Eleven – Elani and Philus – were clad in the non-replacement khaki outfits, but, for whatever reason, had been positioned in the second hovercraft.

Finally, both hovercrafts landed on opposite sides of the island. Immediately, a voice started counting down. _Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight…_

One by one, the tributes registered what was happening. There were no launch tubes. There was no preparation. They couldn't even see outside – didn't even know where they were. And, more importantly, didn't know that half the tributes – maybe some of their allies – were on the other side of the arena altogether.

A few, however, seemed to suspect it. In the southern hovercraft, Septimus nodded at Liana, satisfied that most of their alliance was present. One glance at Harakuise was enough to tell Eldred it hadn't been an accident. Sariya, Thane, and Audra nodded, registering the fact that one of their alliance was missing, but didn't seem altogether unnerved by Delvin's absence. Most of their alliance, after all, was still in tact.

_ Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight._

Inviticus simply shrugged off the fact that two members of their alliance were missing. The ones he trusted – or, at least, the ones he trusted a little _more_ – were there, and that was what mattered. Jaime and Nallea nodded along, but Auster looked more uncomfortable. He was outnumbered now – the only District Four tribute in their alliance.

India and Horatio, on the other hand, were taking the realization in stride. Neither had made a secret of the fact that they didn't have any allies. They had no one to worry about but themselves, and now, it seemed, that might give them an advantage. Barry and Eleanor, as well, seemed quite content with the arrangement. Paget's gaze made its way around the hovercraft, clearly discontent, but his sister looked almost relieved.

_Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight._

Mavina, on the other hand, was glancing around nervously, as if looking harder would suddenly make her missing allies appear in their hovercraft. She caught Zach's gaze, and he tried to smile encouragingly, but it was clear that he was unnerved, as well. Domingo and Calantha both glanced nervously at Gadget. Three out of four members of their alliance were present, but Ivira, who had clearly been their leader, was not. Beckett, too, seemed at a loss, his gaze darting from one side of the hovercraft to the other in search of allies who simply weren't there. Baylor glanced around, looking for Melody, then nodded a little.

At the bar counter, Lander turned to Carolina. "You told him, didn't you." But it wasn't an accusation – simply a statement of what they both already knew. Carolina nodded, and Lander smiled a little. "Good."

_Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

In the other hovercraft, Adelia was smiling a little as she glanced around at each of her allies, who nodded in turn, all of them accounted for. Elani, Philus, and Pan, as well, were grateful – if a little confused – to find themselves in the same group. Fallon and Elizabet quickly found each other, each managing a small smile, grateful for one piece of luck. Louis simply shrugged, and Ciere, as well, didn't seem to care one way or the other.

Alexi, on the other hand, was glancing around frantically, while Presely, as well, seemed a bit confused. Kendall glanced at Brevin, clearly not happy that he was the only ally she had at her side, but willing to make do. Ivira's expression was stony, but her eyes told a different story. Just behind her carefully-guarded expression, there was panic.

_Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen._

Melody took a deep breath, nodding a little. Maybe she and Baylor had come up with some sort of plan for finding each other. Delvin was already eyeing the exit. Whatever his alliance had initially planned, he clearly had no intention of taking on anyone alone and unarmed.

_Ten. Nine. Eight._

Shale and Indira shared a look, and Shale nodded. Indira turned to Jarlan and Imalia. "Does the offer still stand?"

_Six._

Jarlan nodded. "Absolutely."

_Three. Two. One._

* * *

**Mavina Perrot, 17  
****District Four**

_Three. Two. One._

Mavina flinched as the gong sounded. She wasn't ready. She wasn't prepared for this. She had assumed her allies would be with her – at least at the start. But Jarlan and Imalia were nowhere in sight. And Zach—

Zach was already running. Already out the hovercraft door. Quickly, Mavina shook herself from her daze. He had the right idea, of course. Their allies must be in another hovercraft. It had probably landed nearby. Maybe they were right outside. All she had to do was get out.

But, as she sprang up, ready to follow Zach, something grabbed her. No, not something, she realized too late. Some_one_. In one quick motion, Inviticus slammed her into the hovercraft wall. The back of her head struck metal, and blood began to flow. Pain flooded through her head, but she could barely feel it through the haze. Her vision was starting to blur.

Her head struck the wall a second time, and Inviticus let go. Mavina crumpled to the ground, helpless. As everything started to fade, she could see tributes running. Running past her, out the door. Leaving. That was all she had wanted. To leave. To get out.

It wasn't fair.

Something pressed against her throat. A boot. Mavina gasped for air, but she didn't have the strength left to fight back. She closed her eyes, wishing. Wishing that she could go back. Start over. But there was no good wishing for any of that now. And there was a part of her that simply wished it was over.

Soon, it was.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

The plan had to change.

Jaime met Naella's gaze as most of the other tributes fled the hovercraft. The plan, until the night before, had been to turn on Inviticus in the bloodbath. No one would blame them. He had been openly hostile towards pretty much everyone. And, even without him, they were still one of the stronger alliances.

Until now.

There was no telling where Kendall and Brevin were. No way of knowing whether they were nearby or on the other side of the arena. That left their alliance with four members. They couldn't afford to lessen that number – not when Septimus and his allies were still nearby.

Naella seemed to be on the same page, but Auster paid no attention to them. Assuming the others would have his back, he lunged at Inviticus, who was still standing over Mavina's body, his foot on her throat.

Jaime didn't think. She didn't have time. If it was between having Inviticus as an ally and having Auster, there was no contest. She knew Inviticus. She had trained with him. She knew his strengths and weaknesses. Maybe she couldn't trust him, but she could predict him. She could use him.

So as Auster lunged, so did she. Naella was at her side in an instant, pulling Auster off of Inviticus. Before Auster could offer a word of protest – or perhaps let it slip that this had been their plan all along – Jaime wrapped her hands around his throat. Auster's face turned a deep shade of red, his eyes full of panic. Then hatred.

Jaime forced herself to watch. Finally, Auster stopped thrashing. After a moment, she could no longer feel his pulse as she gripped his neck. His eyes glazed over, and then closed. His body went limp.

Still, she didn't look away. She couldn't.

"Looks like you were right about District Four, after all."

Naella's voice finally shook Jaime from her trance. Jaime gritted her teeth. _She _should have been the one to say it. To blame District Four. To side with her district partner. Instead, she simply nodded and seconded Naella's opinion. "Looks like."

Inviticus smirked. Cocky. Sure. Confident he would have been able to handle Auster even without their help. Eventually, his pride would get the better of him.

But not yet. They still needed him. Jaime glanced around the empty hovercraft. "Looks like it's ours," Inviticus noted.

Jaime shrugged. "If we want it, I suppose. There's not much here. Maybe the cornucopia's outside." She headed for the hovercraft door and looked out, but there was only rain. Pouring, blinding rain, and no sign of the other hovercraft or a cornucopia. She turned back to Naella and Inviticus.

"Or maybe we should just stay here a while."

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

There was no cornucopia.

That was the first thing Septimus noticed as he stepped out into the pouring rain. The second was that the hovercraft had landed on a beach. Sand stretched out to the left and right as far as he could see. Trees hid his view of whatever else might lie inland, except for a few higher slopes that appeared rockier.

Tributes were running – some one way, some another. Septimus glanced at Liana, who was looking to him. They were all looking to him. Septimus pointed inland, where a group of tributes was running for the tree line. "Them!"

That was all it took. They followed his word without question, racing after the fleeing tributes despite the fact that they had no weapons themselves. Most of the tributes kept running, ignoring them. But one of the tributes – the tall, burly girl from Eight – turned, unsure. Perhaps trying to figure out whether she should run or stand and fight. Gadget called to her allies, and the two of them turned. Hesitated. Kept her attention on them.

Just long enough.

Septimus and Liana reached her first. The girl dodged his first punch, but, in doing so, she ignored Liana, who dove for her legs. They both tumbled down into the wet sand, but Liana was ready. Gadget wasn't. Her eyes were still open as Septimus kicked a spray of sand into her face, blinding her. Liana turned away just in time to avoid a mouthful of sand herself, rolling away from Gadget as Septimus stepped forward to finish the job.

The girl lashed out, but the blow was clumsy, and he dodged easily. Septimus smirked as the girl struggled to her feet, blinking sand from her eyes. A blow to the knees knocked her down again, and this time she stayed down as Septimus pressed his knee into her throat. The girl's eyes widened briefly, her arms and legs flailing, but, soon, it was over.

Septimus nodded, satisfied, as Liana offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. "That's one," she shrugged then glanced around, looking for their allies.

"There." Septimus pointed towards the tree line, where Thane, Sariya, and Audra were still chasing after Gadget's allies. Chances were, they wouldn't catch them, but at least they had the right idea. They were the largest alliance in their portion of the arena. They might as well act like it.

They already had a huge advantage.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

Stupid.

"Damn it," Domingo gasped as they ran. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." Stupid. They shouldn't have stopped. If Gadget wanted to stay and fight the Careers – or the almost Careers, or the semi-Careers, or whatever they were – then that was her choice. That didn't mean the rest of them had to stay and die with her.

"Keep running!" Calantha insisted. She was right, of course. He was wasting his breath. And the others – the pair from Nine and his own district partner – were quickly catching up.

Domingo's mind raced. They had to do something. Something quick. Something clever. But he couldn't think of anything clever. He couldn't even think. His heart was pounding too quickly. The rain was too heavy. Everything was going wrong.

"Split up!" Calantha yelled over the rain, and Domingo didn't think twice. Calantha split off to the left as he ran to the right, trying desperately not to trip over the tree roots that had begun sprouting from the ground as soon as they had crossed the tree line. The boots weren't helping. They were clunky and clumsy and quickly filling with water. But he didn't dare stop to take them off – not with the others on his tail.

Instead, he kept running. But the boots were growing heavy. His legs were tired. Before he realized he had tripped, his face was in the dirt. He rolled over, prepared for the worst. Prepared for three tributes to appear, ready to beat him to death.

But only one tribute was standing there. Audra. His district partner. Waiting. Hesitating. Where were the others? Had they gone after Calantha, instead? Domingo inched backwards, not wanting to make any sudden moves. Nothing that might provoke his opponent.

His opponent. She certainly didn't look like she wanted to attack. And she was as weaponless as he was. If he could grab a tree branch, maybe he would stand a chance. Maybe. Domingo glanced around frantically, but there wasn't anything within reach.

Then Audra took a step back.

She didn't say anything, but the message was clear. Domingo sprang up and ran, and, this time, Audra didn't follow. One step. Then another. Soon, there was enough distance between them that Domingo allowed himself to slow down a little. Even to smile. Calantha was nowhere to be seen. Gadget was probably dead. And there was no telling where Ivira was. But none of that mattered right now.

He was still alive.

* * *

**Paget Astier, 15  
****District Six**

They were still alive.

Paget was almost laughing as they ran. Would have been laughing, if he wasn't so out of breath. He and Cordelia were still alive. Their allies were nowhere to be found, but, for the moment, that didn't matter. They were alive.

Part of him had feared – for a while, at least – that the Gamemakers would find some way to target them during the bloodbath. It had been known to happen, after all. Instead, they were still on an equal playing field. Even more equal than he had assumed at first, because, unless there was a cornucopia hiding somewhere that he hadn't seen as he was running, they were all unarmed.

Even the Careers.

Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to think that meant they should _attack _the Careers. But the thought of the various Career groups prowling about, trying to find a cornucopia that didn't exist – it was an amusing thought. Paget smiled to himself as he and Cordelia slowed to a quick walk across the beach.

The rock came out of nowhere.

Paget didn't even see it until just before it struck him in the chin. More startled than hurt, he turned to see where the stone had come from, only for another one – a larger one, this time – to strike him in the chest. Paget stumbled backwards a little as a girl came running towards him. One of the older girls – from District Three, maybe? Yes, District Three, he realized as she got closer, the number "3" on her jumpsuit quickly becoming visible.

"Run!" Paget shouted to Cordelia. And they did. But not quickly enough; he knew that even as he said it. The girl was faster. Stronger. Maybe together they could fight her off, but maybe not. She was armed – with rocks, at least. They were already exhausted from running.

He had to choose.

There was no choice. Paget turned and ran back towards the girl. Cordelia slowed. Stopped. "Go!" Paget shouted over the rain. "Cordelia, go! Run!"

The third rock struck him in the head. Paget staggered as the girl tackled him, another rock in her hand. Larger than the first three. Jagged. Paget threw a punch, grazing her chin, but the girl quickly pinned his arms beneath her knees.

The rock came down hard. He could feel blood – wet and warm and sticky. Flowing down his face. Paget lunged forward with what little strength he had left, trying to head-butt the girl, but she was too quick. The rock came down again, harder this time. Everything was beginning to blur. Paget coughed, spewing blood into the girl's face as the world grew dark.

He just hoped Cordelia had gotten away.

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

He had gotten away.

Audra clenched her fists as she made her way back to the tree line, where she could see Septimus and Liana waiting. Domingo hadn't gotten away. She had let him go. She had hesitated. She had thought she could do it – thought she could kill him – but, when it had come down to it, she hadn't had the guts.

But she couldn't let Septimus and Liana know that. So she put on her best annoyed expression and repeated the lie out loud. "He got away."

Septimus nodded, unsurprised. Did he know? Had he known that she would spare her opponent? That she wouldn't have the strength to do what had to be done? But if he thought she was weak, then why would he have asked her to join his alliance in the first place?

Just then, Thane and Sariya came trudging back from the forest, also empty-handed. Unharmed. Did that mean they had lost their target, as well, or simply that they'd been able to kill her without much of a struggle? Thane shook his head in response to her unasked question. "She got away."

Got away. So had the girl actually escaped, or had the two of them intentionally lost her? Thane looked irritated, Sariya a bit more relieved. Septimus, on the other hand, simply shrugged. "There's still plenty of time. And they're not our biggest threat. We should put some distance between us and the cornucopia, such as it is, since there's not really anything useful there, anyway."

The rest of them nodded easily. "Which way should we go?" Liana asked.

Septimus pointed inland, towards the trees. "That's where most of the tributes went. That's probably where we're most likely to find food, as well. It doesn't look like water will be a problem. And we can use branches and rocks to make weapons."

Audra nodded. Weapons. Weapons she didn't even know if she'd be able to use, when the time came. She had been so certain. So sure that she could do what needed to be done. Now everything was different.

But she couldn't let them know that.

* * *

**Kendall Rios, 18  
****District Four**

_Three. Two. One._

Kendall lunged immediately. She had chosen her target as the clock was ticking down: Fallon, the younger girl from Seven, one of the farthest tributes from the hovercraft door. Not the most impressive target, perhaps, but that way, Kendall could take her down and then move on to another opponent, getting two kills out of the way early on.

She didn't anticipate the other girl. Ciere, the older girl from Seven, who threw herself in Kendall's path. Kendall didn't hesitate. One target was as good as another, in the end. Kendall's first punch landed squarely on the girl's jaw, the second in her gut. The girl fought back, but even Kendall could tell it was mostly for show. That she wasn't really trying.

Not that it would have mattered if she was. Kendall was stronger by far, and soon had the girl pinned. Without hesitation, Kendall grabbed Ciere's head and slammed it down on the floor of the hovercraft. Once. Twice. Then a third time just for good measure, even though she was clearly already dead.

Kendall scrambled to her feet, glancing around the hovercraft, which was nearly empty. Brevin had stayed – maybe to watch her back, in case she became a target. Not likely, since the only other tributes who had remained were Jarlan, Imalia, and their new friends – the older girl from Ten and the older boy from Eleven.

Kendall eyed them for a moment, weighing her options. There were four of them. But only two of them were trained. Two against two, really. Would she and Brevin ever get a better chance?

But could she count on Brevin to back her up? Against their own district partners? Maybe it was better to wait. There were other options. Other targets. Jarlan and his group could wait.

For his part, Jarlan didn't say a word as Kendall and Brevin headed for the exit. The advantage in numbers was his, but he didn't have it in him to order his allies to attack the two of them. Not when he could simply let them walk away.

Kendall stepped out into the rain.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

He hadn't imagined it quite like this.

Brevin shook his head as he followed Kendall out of the hovercraft. Where were the others? Where was the cornucopia? Where were the weapons?

Where was the excitement?

Everyone else seemed to be running. A group of six tributes was headed towards one of the forested slopes in the distance. The trio of younger tributes from Eleven was running along the beach. Everyone was running away. Would he and Kendall be able to catch any of them?

Just as he was considering trying to chase down one of the younger, slower ones, however, he spotted someone else in the rain. Someone just standing there. Staring. Looking for someone. For his allies, perhaps. Alexi, one of the boys from Six. A younger girl pulled at his sleeve, trying to urge him on, but, as Brevin called to Kendall and pointed towards them, a second girl – an older one – ran up, grabbed the younger girl's hand, and pulled her away as Brevin and Kendall ran towards the boy.

Finally, the boy regained his senses and began to run. But not quickly enough. Brevin had spent his life running along beaches. This was what he was born for. Kendall was close behind him as he tackled the boy, but she gave him his space. She'd already gotten her kill.

This one was his.

There were tears in the boy's eyes as Brevin wrapped his hands around his throat. "Please," he begged, thrashing about in Brevin's grasp. "Please, just let me go. I won't—"

"You're right; you won't," Kendall sneered. "You won't get the chance. Do it, Brevin."

Brevin hesitated. But only for a moment. If he didn't, Kendall would. So what difference did it make? He squeezed. Harder. Harder. The boy gasped, flailed, but, finally, went still. Brevin let go, staggering to his feet. Kendall nodded approvingly.

"Not bad."

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

He was dead.

Presley didn't look back. But she knew. Alexi had frozen. The Careers had been running towards them. He was dead. Or, if he wasn't, he would be soon.

It wasn't fair.

Presley gripped the other girl's hand as the pair of them kept running. She knew she should be grateful. Glad she was safe. But all she could think about was how unfair it was. Alexi had never hurt anyone. He had even been kind. He hadn't done anything to deserve this.

_None of you deserve this_.

Nicodemus' words echoed in her mind as she kept running. She had known, on some level, that he was right. That the Games weren't going to be fair. But there was a part of her that had still pictured it otherwise. Imagined deaths in the Games the same way she had always looked at death: retribution against those who deserved it.

But none of them deserved it.

No. No, that wasn't quite true. There were a few who deserved it. Not her. And not Alexi. But the tributes who had killed him – the Careers. Maybe they deserved it.

So she would kill them.

But not now. Not here. Not without any weapons or allies. Unless … was the other girl her ally now? She hadn't let go of her hand since they'd run from the pair from Four. Had the other girl lost her allies, as well?

Finally, the pair slowed, and Presley glanced up at her companion. One of the girls from Eight, she was pretty sure. "I'm Presley," she managed between gasps of air.

The girl smiled a little. "Ivira."

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

She hadn't had much choice.

Ivira shook her head as she and Presley stopped to catch their breaths. Maybe a little thirteen-year-old wasn't an ideal ally. But Calantha, Domingo, Gadget … Who could say where they were? And she needed _someone_.

Ideally, she would have wanted the boy, too. But if he was going to be stupid enough to stand there while the Careers attacked, then he wouldn't have been much use, anyway. Presley, on the other hand – if what she had said during the interviews was true – could be a valuable asset, despite her appearance.

And she didn't exactly have any other options.

"Where should we go?"

The question caught Ivira off-guard. She hadn't expected the younger girl to accept her as an ally so quickly. Ivira studied her companion for a moment. Something in her voice was a little off. A little too eager to please. A little too happy to go along with whatever Ivira suggested.

Ivira shook the thought from her head. Now wasn't the time to be picky. She'd had her choice of allies during training. But now all of that had fallen apart. Much as she hated admitting it, she had been wrong. She hadn't anticipated the Gamemakers splitting them up.

Who could have?

* * *

**Jediah Bouvier, 15  
****District Eight**

"You were right."

Jediah finally smiled a little as the six of them came to the base of the large hill. "About the groups, maybe," Adelia agreed. "I wasn't counting on getting soaked. We'll need to find some shelter as soon as we can – dry off a bit, hope the rain passes."

The rest of them nodded. It was a reasonable plan. And most of their allies simply looked happy that they were still alive, that they were all together.

"How did you know?" Nadine asked quietly as they started to make their way up the slope.

Adelia shook her head. "It was just a guess. From the start, they'd been treating us as two groups. Two different outfits during the chariot rides. Two different sets of clothing during training. I guess I didn't want to believe that they were just doing it to be cruel. I wanted to think there was another reason – a better reason."

Jediah nodded. "And you were right."

"I had no idea about the cornucopia, though," Adelia admitted.

"Do you think there _is_ one somewhere?" Aleron asked. "Maybe it's just hidden. Maybe if we find it…"

"Maybe," Evander agreed. "But I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't one at all. There was another year when they didn't have any weapons, wasn't there?"

"Five years ago," Adelia offered. "But that was a tundra. At least here, we have branches. Rocks. Vines. Things that we can use to make weapons or traps. There are trees, so there's probably some sort of food. And it doesn't look like we'll have to worry about water. It could be a lot worse."

Jediah smiled a little. Even if she was just acting, just trying to stay positive for the sake of the cameras, Adelia's attitude was contagious. He was glad she had been right about the groups, glad their group hadn't been separated. So far, this wasn't so bad.

It almost seemed too easy.

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18  
****District Four**

It almost seemed too easy.

Jarlan cocked an eyebrow as six cannons rang out. Six. Only six. Forty-six tributes, and only six deaths.

He wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

On the one hand, it meant more of the competition was left. The more tributes died in the bloodbath, the fewer they had to face later. But, on the other hand, fewer deaths meant a greater possibility that Mavina and Zach were still alive … wherever they were.

The four of them had glanced outside – enough to tell that they were on a beach, and that there were trees farther inland. But they had decided to wait for the rain to die down.

"_If _the rain dies down," Imalia pointed out for the third time. "For all we know, it won't. Shouldn't we be out there, learning more about the arena? Exploring? Searching?"

"Hunting?" Shale offered.

"Well, yes," Imalia admitted. "We're supposed to be Careers – or, at least, _some _of us are. And it's the bloodbath – or, at least, it was. We're not supposed to just … sit here."

Jarlan shook his head. "What's gotten into you?" She had never been this restless during training.

"What's gotten into _me_?" Imalia demanded. "You wanted to be the leader. So why aren't you _leading _us anywhere?"

Indira stepped between them. "Easy. Take it easy. You're both right. Imalia, I don't like sitting her any more than you do. And I think you're right about the rain; I don't think it's going away any time soon. But Jarlan's right, too. We have plenty of time. We should see if there's anything else in here we can use – anything we can take apart and use as weapons, or any supplies. There are still forty tributes in the arena. We can afford to wait a little while – say, until after the tributes' faces are shown in the sky tonight, so we know if any of our other allies are still alive."

Our other allies. She said it so easily, just assuming that, if Mavina, Zach, and Beckett were still alive somewhere in the arena, and if they happened to find each other again, they would all be one big, happy alliance.

Jarlan shook the thought from his head. Why not? He had wanted Beckett as an ally, as well, in the first place. He had extended the offer to all three of them before. Why shouldn't it still stand?

Maybe that was why Imalia was upset, even if she wouldn't say it. When Indira had asked if the offer still stood, he had said yes without thinking. Without consulting her. It was a little thing, but if it tipped the balance of power in the alliance…

Maybe this was going to be more complicated than he'd thought.

* * *

**Bierce Lascher  
****District Four Mentor**

"Well, at least it's not fire."

Bierce smiled wryly as Kalypso took a seat beside him. His arena had been a forest fire, which had led to one of the shortest Games on record: only four days. But that was four days too long. After returning to District Four, he had sworn off anything to do with the Games. Career training. Mentoring. And yet here he was, mentoring. Because they needed him.

But did they? Naomi and Mags were already mentoring two tributes. If Kalypso had done the same, he could have stayed in District Four. And maybe if he had stayed, if he had kept an eye on Misha…

Maybe District Four wouldn't have lost two tributes in a bloodbath that had only killed six tributes overall.

Kalypso shook her head, as if she knew what he was thinking. "Don't. It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. Mavina didn't really grasp what she was getting into. She was never going to make it out alive."

Bierce nodded. She was right, but that didn't make it any easier. "And Auster?"

There was no easy answer for that. Auster had only died, it seemed, because the others had decided that District Four wasn't trustworthy. Then again, he _had _been about to attack Inviticus. Had that been part of the plan?

He could always ask Naomi, of course, but he had enough to worry about. Jarlan was still alive, with an alliance that was at least somewhat in tact, thanks to their new recruits. And they held the cornucopia, such as it was. A single hovercraft wasn't much of a cornucopia, but at least it was shelter from the rain.

It was certainly better than nothing.

* * *

"_They come. They fight. They destroy. They corrupt. It always ends the same."_


	33. Survive

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **So I wasn't planning on updating quite this soon, but lazy weekend = another quick chapter. It's amazing how much faster things always seem to go once we get to the actual Games.

Most of the focus this chapter is on the tributes who weren't featured in the bloodbath chapter – mostly the ones who ran away from the bloodbath and are now exploring various parts of the arena. Again, don't be alarmed if your favorite tribute – or even their alliance – doesn't get a POV in this chapter. That doesn't mean they're not important. It just means I'm not a fan of 40-POV chapters.

Lastly, if you haven't already voted in the "final eight" poll, please do so before too many more of our tributes die off. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

* * *

**Day One  
****Survive**

* * *

**Hazel Birnam  
****District Seven Mentor**

She still wasn't quite sure what she felt.

Hazel drummed her fingers quietly on the table as she watched the screen. The bloodbath was almost always emotionally draining, but having four tributes made it even more so. Ciere was dead. But she had saved Fallon, who was now relatively safe, heading north with her small alliance in tact. Audra had been too frightened to kill, but that had saved Domingo's life. She wasn't quite sure whether she should be worried for Audra's sake or relived for Domingo's.

"Not bad at all."

Hazel glanced up as Balthasar slid into a seat beside her. He was right, as far as his own tribute was concerned – and Audra, as well. Their alliance was the largest on their side of the island, and second only to Adelia's overall. Septimus had picked up a kill in the bloodbath, and the others had at least tried. "I suppose so," Hazel agreed. "They're in a good position. Heading inland is a good choice; they'll have a better chance of finding food, and no one in the area is likely to attack such a large group."

Balthasar smiled. "True. But I was talking about Audra in particular. If you're going to chicken out of killing someone, your district partner's a good pick. For all the audience knows, they grew rather close during training. They can pass her hesitation off as district loyalty rather than cowardice."

The word was there, even though he didn't say it. "But…" Hazel prompted.

Balthasar shrugged. "But we both know better. She didn't spare Domingo because he's her district partner. She spared him because she was too afraid to kill. At least for now."

Hazel nodded. "Did you suggest Audra as an ally for Septimus?"

"No, but I certainly didn't object. I still don't." He took another sip of his drink. "Don't kid yourself. Septimus knew what he was getting. If he'd wanted an alliance of cold-blooded killers, he would have sought out the other Careers. And they might have accepted him, once he told them what he and Harakuise had figured out about the arena."

"So why not, then?" Hazel asked. "Why choose a group of people he knew wouldn't kill?"

"They won't kill _yet._ There's a difference. Audra's life wasn't on the line. It wasn't her or Domingo … not _yet_. Septimus knows the Games don't usually go to the tribute who makes the biggest splash in the bloodbath. It's a good start, mind you, but he's in it for the long haul. He wanted allies who would grow more confident as the Games went on – not ones who would draw a lot of attention at the start and then lose their momentum." He smiled a little. "Give Audra time. How many tributes did you kill in the bloodbath? How many did Casper kill?"

He already knew the answer, of course. "None."

Balthasar nodded. "Exactly. The audience isn't expecting ruthless killers from District Seven. Or Nine, for that matter. Septimus made a kill, and his alliance is mostly in tact. For now, that'll be enough for the audience. He can worry about making killers out of the others later."

Hazel nodded. Hopefully, the audience would see it the same way. Casper had waited three days, after all, before his first kill. And her own first kill had been her last – the last of her Games. But that had been the Third Games. Things were different now. After last year, the audience would be expecting blood.

But Balthasar was probably right, and it seemed the Gamemakers knew it, as well. If they had wanted a blood-soaked beginning, they would have provided a real cornucopia with at least some sort of weapons. They didn't care how many tributes died today. Or the next day. Or even the next. Eventually, one way or the other, forty-five tributes were going to die.

And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15  
****District Seven**

There was nothing she could have done to stop it.

Fallon gripped Elizabet's hand tightly as the two of them made their way along the shore. It hadn't taken long for the sand to turn to a rocky coast, but they didn't dare head inland. Most of the tributes had gone that way. Hopefully, by keeping to the shore, they would be able to avoid most of the action.

That was the plan, at least. Then again, nothing had gone according to plan so far. She certainly hadn't planned to be one of the Careers' first targets. She hadn't planned for Ciere to throw herself in the way.

She hadn't planned for anyone to die saving her.

It didn't make any sense. The two of them hadn't exactly been enemies during training, but they certainly hadn't been friends, either. She had never imagined that Ciere would risk her life for her. She would never have asked her to.

And yet she had. Without being asked, seemingly without any thought, Ciere had saved her. The older girl had given her a gift – a beautiful, priceless gift. Because of Ciere, she was still alive. Whatever time she had left, she owed to her district partner.

And she wasn't going to let that go to waste.

Finally, the pair slowed their pace a little. No one seemed to be following them. In fact, as far as Fallon knew, no one else had even come this direction. Maybe they could afford to rest a bit. "There," Fallon suggested, pointing to a large boulder along the shore up ahead. If they took shelter behind it, they could rest there for a while.

Elizabet nodded, clearly eager for a break herself. Quickly, the two of them ducked behind the rock, and Fallon immediately sank to the ground and removed her boots, dumping what seemed like gallons of water out of each of them. Elizabet did the same, wringing out her socks, as well. Not that it did much good; the rain soaked them again even as she wrung the water out. "Well, at least we won't go thirsty," Elizabet offered, clearly trying to find something good to say about the situation.

Fallon nodded. There was that. And, of course, the fact that they were alive. And together. With so many of the alliance split up, she couldn't help but be grateful for Elizabet's company. If they didn't have each other, Fallon wasn't sure what she would have done.

The same thing, probably. She would still have run. But it would have been much more frightening on her own. Simply having someone with her was a comfort, even though they both knew that comfort couldn't last forever.

"Look!" Elizabet called suddenly, pointing at the water. "Fish!"

Fallon peered through the rain in the direction Elizabet was pointing. Sure enough, there were fish in the water nearby. Mostly small ones, but a few larger ones, as well. Elizabet grinned. "Remember anything about making nets?"

_Not much_, Fallon almost said. But she didn't want to admit that. Not with the whole audience watching. Elizabet would understand, she was pretty sure, that it was impossible to remember everything they'd learned briefly during training. But the audience might not be so considerate.

So she simply nodded instead. "I think so. Do you see anything we could use as rope?"

Elizabet pointed inland a little. "Some of the trees have vines. That might work."

Fallon shrugged. "Sure. Let's give it a try." _Why not? _Fallon figured as they headed for the trees together. It was certainly worth a try. It wasn't as if they had anything to lose.

She was just glad she wasn't alone.

* * *

**India Telle, 17  
****District Three**

She was glad she was alone.

India took a step back from Paget's body, the rain already washing the blood from her hands. Already clean. Already almost forgotten. And there was no one with her to remind her. No one to whom she would have to justify herself.

Quickly, India retreated to the tree line, hoping the hovercraft would come to collect the body. The other girl was already gone – most likely, too far away for India to catch even if she could tell which way she had gone. That didn't matter now. It had never mattered. She hadn't been after them in particular. They had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Because she'd needed to kill _someone_.

It was the best way to make an impression with the sponsors – especially for a non-Career. The sooner she convinced the Capitol she was willing to kill, the better off she would be. And if attacking a tribute in the bloodbath with nothing but a few rocks wasn't convincing, she didn't know what was.

More importantly, she had convinced herself.

It was easy to convince the Capitol she could kill in self-defense. Almost anyone could, when it came down to it. When their life was on the line, nearly everyone would fight to the death. What she had done was different. But it was what she would have to do eventually, anyway. Eventually, everyone came out of the Games a killer – not just in self-defense, but a cold-blooded murderer.

And if she'd gotten to that point before the others, all the better.

India clenched her fists. She knew she should feel something. Guilt. Shame. Remorse. Year after year, she had seen those emotions on the tributes' faces after their first kill. But, for better or worse, she felt none of it. She wasn't sorry – and not just because she couldn't allow herself to be. She had no reason to be.

They would never have made it far, anyway – the two tributes she had been chasing. Their deaths were inevitable. Inescapable. So why did it matter if she had played a role in them?

Soon, a hovercraft descended to remove the body, leaving only the blood in the sand, quickly washed away by the rain and the waves. And that was it. It was over. He was gone, and now she could move on.

Now she could plan her next move.

India stuffed a few more rocks in her pockets, just in case. In case another opportunity came along. In case another tribute stumbled into her path.

In the meantime, she might as well keep going. There was no reason to go back the other way. No compelling reason to turn inland. There was as much opportunity for food along the shore – between the fish she had seen and the plants that grew along the edge of the tree line – as there would be farther inland. So she might as well stay out here in the open, where she could see other tributes coming.

They could see her, too, of course. Which made things a little more dangerous, but it also looked good for the sponsors. If she stayed out here, it would prove to them that she wasn't afraid to be seen. She wasn't afraid to present herself as a target – because she understood how quickly the predator could turn into the prey.

And she knew which one she wanted to be.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

She wished she knew which way to go.

Melody stopped to catch her breath, hoping the pounding rain would hide the tears in her eyes. When Baylor had approached her the night before with the theory that the tributes would be separated in two groups at the start of the Games – the replacements and the non-replacements – she had thought it would be fairly easy for them to find each other again. All they needed was a plan.

They had agreed that they would both head west. They knew they couldn't count on any specific landmark in the arena – a mountain, a tree, a building – but had figured that they would at least have some sense of direction. That they would be able to follow the sun west and find each other.

It might have been a good plan if they could see the sun.

Melody blinked the rain out of her eyes. Since running from the cornucopia, she had been searching for any brighter patch of sky. Any hint of which way might be west. But there was nothing. No hint of which way she should go.

Knowing what was coming hadn't helped her at all.

And now she had no way of knowing where Baylor was. Whether or not he was looking for her. Or even whether he was still alive. But she kept going. Kept walking in the direction she hoped was west. Because she wasn't sure what else to do.

They hadn't decided what to do if they _couldn't _find each other. Was she on her own now? How long should she keep looking before admitting she simply wasn't going to find him?

Melody cupped her hands, catching some of the rain and taking a long drink before continuing on. She had always known she would eventually be on her own in the arena. No alliance lasted forever. But she had been counting on Baylor's company for a while, at least. Alone, she didn't stand a chance if another tribute happened to find her.

Melody shook the thought from her head. Her best chance was to keep moving, so that they _wouldn't _find her. If she and Baylor weren't going to be able to find each other, the best thing she could do was make sure none of the _other _tributes could find her, either.

But where was the best place to go? The shoreline was exposed, so she could see other tributes coming – but that also meant they could see her. Inland, the trees would provide some cover, but that meant that was probably where the other tributes would go, too. Seeking shelter from the rain. So did that mean she should stay in the open?

She wished she had someone to talk to. Someone who would know what to do.

Melody clenched her fists. _She _was supposed to know what to do. Even if she had someone else with her, the decision would ultimately be hers. "Okay," she said quietly, the rain drowning out her own voice. "Okay. Can't stay on the shore forever. Especially for the night. Too exposed. Have to find somewhere safer."

So did that mean she had to head inland?

She didn't get an answer. But she wasn't really expecting one. No one was going to sponsor a girl from District Nine who had managed to lose track of her only ally. Not when there were three groups of Careers and several other large alliances to sponsor. No, she couldn't count on any help. Not yet. Not until she had earned it.

She was on her own.

* * *

**Cordelia Astier, 15  
****District Six**

She was on her own.

Cordelia kept running. Her legs ached. Her clothes were soaked, her boots full of water. Her lungs were throbbing from trying to breathe too quickly in the terrible humidity. But she didn't dare stop. Not yet.

Not until she was safe.

But she knew better. Deep down, she knew. She would never be safe. They were going to kill her – just like they had killed Paget. They had arranged it, somehow – the Gamemakers. They had both been doomed from the start.

It was only a matter of time before they came for her, too.

Finally, exhausted, Cordelia sank to her knees. "It's not fair!" she shouted, though part of her knew no one was listening. No one who cared, at least. If their aunt and uncle had cared what happened to them, they would never have agreed to their reaping. And there was no one else in District Six who would be sorry to see her go.

Maybe it was better if it happened now. "Well, come on, then!" Cordelia shouted. "Why don't you just finish it?" Maybe she should have run back with Paget. Maybe she should have helped him fight.

Maybe he would still be alive.

Cordelia picked up a thick branch and swung it against a tree as hard as she could. "Come on! What are you waiting for? You got him! Why not me, too?" She swung again. "Will that make you happy, Velion? How about you, Violan? That's what you wanted, right? Us, out of the way, so you can get on with your _normal_ lives?" She swung harder. "Well, if it's coming, then why not? Why not get it over with? Come on!"

"You don't want that."

Cordelia whirled around to face the voice – a quiet voice, coming from a small tribute. One of the boys from Eight, going by the number sewn on his outfit. "How do you know?" she demanded. "How would you know what I want?"

The boy shook his head. "Because if you really wanted to die, you could just run back to the cornucopia. I'm sure the Careers are still there and would be more than happy to oblige." He waited a moment. "No? Then I'm guessing you probably want to live. And if that's the case, then shouting might not be your best option. I saw a few other tributes running this way. Now, they didn't look like the sort who would attack on sight, but if they think you're going to attract the Careers' attention..."

"Maybe I don't care," Cordelia spat. And she was surprised to find it was true. It wasn't that she _wanted _to die. She simply didn't care. None of it mattered any more. Paget had tried to save her, but they both knew it was pointless, in the end. She was going to die. It was only a matter of when, and where, and by whose hand.

And how many people she took down with her.

Cordelia lunged. The boy dodged, but not well enough. The end of the branch left a cut across his cheek. Her second blow struck him in the side, knocking him off his feet. "Wait!" he pleaded. "Please, just wait. Just think. Just _listen_."

No. No, she wouldn't listen. She was tired of listening. Of waiting. Of hoping things would get better. They were never going to get better. No one was ever going to care what happened to her. So why should she care what happened to anyone else?

She lunged again.

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

The girl lunged again.

Baylor rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a branch that would have collided with his head. Desperate, he scrambled to his feet and took off in the rain. But the girl was right behind him. She was faster. She would catch him.

Stupid. So stupid. Why had he tried to reason with her? Why hadn't he just let the Gamemakers or the Careers or even the other tributes come after her? Why couldn't he just let her die?

Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe she would have seen him anyway. Come after him anyway. Baylor gasped for breath. The girl was gaining ground, and he was no closer to being able to defend himself. Maybe if he could grab something. A branch. A stone. Anything.

But there was nothing. Nothing useful. Nothing worth the time it would take to bend over and grab it. Small stones. Little sticks. Nothing he could really defend himself with.

Just then, he saw a river in the distance. Or a stream, maybe. He couldn't really tell how big it was. But if he could reach it…

Then what? He couldn't swim. A river wasn't much help. Unless…

He didn't have time to think it through. Just as the girl reached him, he plunged into the river. The girl didn't hesitate to jump in after him. Baylor reached down, hoping. Sure enough, the bottom of the river was lined with stones. He scooped one up, then surfaced just in time for the branch to whack him in the head.

Dazed, Baylor nonetheless managed to hold onto the rock he had grabbed. As the girl swung again, he dove for her legs. Hindered by her clumsy boots, one push was enough to make the girl lose her footing. Together, the two of them tumbled into the river. But he was ready. The girl wasn't. She lost her grip on her branch as they fell, while Baylor held onto his rock.

Without thinking, he swung. The rock hit the girl's head once. Twice. She was thrashing beneath the water, but he held on. Held her under. Struck her again. And again. Blood began to flow, turning the river red. Still, he held on. He swung again.

And then a cannon sounded.

Startled, Baylor sprang back. A cannon. Distantly, he registered what that meant. A tribute had died. A tribute had been killed.

It took him a moment to realize which one.

Still in a bit of a daze from the blow to his head, Baylor stared at the body in front of him. As he watched, the current took hold of her body. But instead of dragging it out to the shore, the river carried her body inland. His vision was still blurry, but Baylor thought, for a moment, that he saw a cave. A cave filled with some sort of light. Then Cordelia's body was gone.

Instantly, the ground began to shake. Baylor scrambled out of the river as the mouth of the cave grew dark. Dark with smoke. Through the rain, he saw – or thought he saw – a pillar of smoke rising from the cave.

But then it was gone. It was over. Baylor pressed his hand to his head, trying to staunch the bleeding. The blow from the branch must have been worse than he'd thought. His ears were ringing.

No. Not ringing. There _was _a noise. A soft, pinging sound, almost drowned out by the rain, but unmistakable. A parachute. Baylor looked up in shock as the small package landed by his feet. Hesitantly, still not quite believing what had just happened, Baylor opened the package. Inside was a small compass, a long strip of bandage, and a note.

_You earned it, kid.  
__P.S. No, it doesn't point north.  
__~ L.C.K._

L.C.K. Luck? No, Baylor realized with a smile. Lander, Carolina, and Kit. They were trying to help him. All of them. Baylor wrapped the bandage tightly around his head. Then he folded the note, stuffed it in one of his pockets, and turned the compass over in his hands.

It didn't point north.

"Okay," Baylor whispered. "Okay, Melody. It's okay. I'm coming to find you."

He started walking again.

* * *

**Louis Soren, 14  
****District Eight**

Finally, he had to stop.

Louis gasped for air as he slowed to a walk and, finally, simply stopped for a moment along the beach. "Stupid boots," he muttered as he took them off and emptied the water that had accumulated. His socks were uselessly drenched, and his jumpsuit, as well, was already soaked clean through. Whose idea was this, anyway? Why hadn't the Gamemakers given them wetsuits or something if they were going to drop them in the middle of a monsoon?

He didn't dare say so, though. The audience didn't want to see tributes who whined at the first bit of discomfort. And they certainly didn't want to see tributes insulting the Gamemakers. It was probably too soon to expect sponsors to send anything to help. And unless they were going to send him a ready-made shelter, he couldn't think of anything that would be particularly useful, anyway.

Shelter. He had to find shelter. So far, he had kept to the shore, but, by now, it was clear he wasn't going to find anything here. There was water, of course, but there wasn't exactly going to be a shortage of that anywhere. Louis sighed, put his boots back on, and rolled his pant legs down over the top in the hopes of keeping out some of the rain. It probably wouldn't do much good, but it was something.

And something was always better than nothing.

Louis took a deep breath and started heading inland. Once he crossed the tree line, the canopy above him shielded him from a little of the rain. Most still made its way through, but it wasn't the same steady pounding as it had been out in the open. Better than nothing.

Slowly, he trudged onwards, heading away from the cornucopia as much as he could. With any luck, the tributes there would decide to stay inside the hovercraft, where they would be safe from the rain. Better to put as much distance as possible between him and them before they realized the rain probably wasn't going to stop.

And why would it? The Gamemakers seemed intent on making sure the tributes were as miserable as possible. Why would the weather be the only exception?

It probably wasn't even raining wherever the 'normal' tributes were.

Wherever they were. Louis hadn't really given that much thought, aside from being grateful for the fact that there were fewer tributes in the same area who might want to kill him. He didn't have any allies to worry about. No one to find. No one to miss.

No one who would miss him.

_Stop it._ Louis kicked a tree branch out of his way. It didn't matter whether the other tributes in the arena would miss him. What mattered was the people back in District Eight. His family. His friends. He had to hold onto that, even if he was all alone here. Alone with a bunch of trees and rocks and—

Trees. Louis turned back towards the branch he'd kicked. Quickly, he broke off a few of the smaller twigs, leaving the branch about four feet tall. A staff. Maybe it wasn't much, but he felt better now that he had a weapon of sorts. The fact that he was armed might make other tributes less likely to attack him, even though any of them could easily find a similar weapon.

Louis turned the staff over in his hands. Was that why the Gamemakers had provided only wooden weapons during their private sessions? Had it been a hint?

How could he have missed it?

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15  
****District Three**

How could they have missed it?

Horatio slowed to a stop as something caught his eye. Something along the tree line, just a little bit inland. A bit of earth that seemed … off. Different, somehow. Overturned, darker than the rest. Horatio approached as cautiously as he could, but there didn't seem to be any other tributes nearby.

Other had run this way, of course. He had seen the pair from Twelve in this direction, as well as one of the older boys. District Five, maybe? Horatio wasn't entirely sure why a Career would be running away from the cornucopia, but it was so hard to keep track of which Careers were in which alliance.

Not that it really mattered. They were all equally capable of killing him, if they happened to come across him now. But none of them seemed to be coming.

Finally, Horatio reached the strange patch of earth, nestled between a few trees. Some sort of plants were sprouting from the soil, only green shoots visible aboveground. Hesitantly, Horatio reached down and gave one of them a tug.

And more than green came out. Some sort of vegetable was attached to the end of the sprout. It was a little smaller than his fist, round, with a pointed tip at the lower end. Purple on top, turning to white at the bottom.

Horatio's mind raced. He was fairly sure the plant wasn't poisonous. But was he certain enough to test it? He turned it over in his hands. Would the Gamemakers really put a garden of poisonous plants so close to the cornucopia? What would be the point? No, surely the garden was meant to keep tributes here. Keep them close to the cornucopia, where the Careers would find them quickly. And, assuming that was the case, it was rather pointless for them to be poisonous.

Besides, he was hungry.

Horatio took a bite. Then another. It didn't taste poisonous. Not that he knew what poison tasted like, but he had always imagined that people would try to make something poisonous taste _good_. Not that the plants tasted _bad_ – just rather bland. Mild. Harmless.

It certainly wasn't Capitol food, but he wasn't exactly in a position to be picky. Horatio pulled up as many of the plants as he figured he could reasonably carry, ate a few, and stuffed the rest in his pockets. In addition to the larger purple-and-white ones, there were also some smaller red ones, crisp and slightly spicier than the others. Horatio smiled as he stood up, brushing the sand from his rain-soaked jumpsuit. He wasn't about to be tricked into staying so close to the cornucopia, but at least now he knew where to come to get food, if he needed more later.

He was about to walk away when something else caught his eye. A wooden handle, sticking out of the ground. Horatio gave a tug, and a small, metal blade emerged from the sand. Horatio turned the object over in his hand. It looked more like a gardening tool than a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

Horatio scanned the ground one more time, looking for anything else that might be useful. There didn't seem to be anything, but what he had was more than enough for now. He had enough food to last a few days, at least, if he was careful. He had a weapon – or, at least, something he could use as a weapon in a pinch. And he knew where to come to get more supplies if he ran out.

So far, luck seemed to be on his side.

* * *

**Elani Ingram, 14  
****District Eleven**

So far, luck seemed to be on their side.

Elani gripped her allies' hands as the three of them trudged on. She hadn't let go of them, it seemed, since they'd fled the bloodbath. She didn't want to lose track of them in the blinding rain – not when Philus wouldn't be able to hear them if they got separated.

The fact that they were together at all seemed to be quite the stroke of luck. She hadn't seen any of the other 'non-replacement' tributes. Not that she'd seen many other tributes in general since they'd started running. One of the other girls had run the same way, but she was probably far ahead of them by now. Other than that, they had seen no one.

Not that she had a problem with that, of course. They were in no position to fend off an attack. So the fact that her allies were the only other tributes in sight was a comfort.

But why were they together?

All the other groups had been split apart – or not – based on whether the tributes were replacements or not. But not them. What made them special? Unless…

Elani nearly burst out laughing as she realized. But she caught herself in time; all that came out was a small chuckle. That was enough to grab Pan's attention, though. "What? What's so funny?" The younger boy stopped short, drawing Philus' attention, as well.

Elani broke into a grin. "Don't you get it – why we're together?"

Pan shrugged. "Because the Gamemakers put us together?"

Elani shook her head. "No. No, they didn't. _We _did." Both boys stared at her, uncomprehending, until Elani ran her fingers over where her hair should have been. "_We _chose to be part of this group – Philus and me. They only put us together because _we_ asked them to, without realizing it."

Philus nodded his understanding, and Pan, too, was smiling. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was a little bit of hope. A little something to hold onto – the idea that maybe they _did _have some say in what happened to them.

Suddenly, Philus grabbed Elani's hand, pointing inland towards the trees. Elani squinted in the direction he was pointing. She couldn't see anything through the rain. "What is it, Philus?" she asked, but Philus simply pointed.

"You think we should go that way?" Pan asked, and Philus nodded emphatically. Elani shrugged. One direction was probably as good as another. And maybe there was something in the woods. Maybe Philus had seen something.

As they neared the edge of the trees, she saw it, too. Some sort of building, just beyond the tree line. A cabin of sorts. Pan started to run towards it, but Elani gripped his hand, holding him back. "We don't know what might be inside." Or _who _might be inside. Just because they had only seen one tribute running this way didn't mean no one else had come from a different direction.

But as they crept closer, Elani still saw no one. And when she ventured closer to the open door and poked her head inside the small cabin, there was still no one. Nothing. The cabin was bare except for an old lantern on a small wooden table, a rickety old wooden rocking chair, and a few cupboard drawers along one of the walls. A little exploring revealed that most of the drawers were empty, but one held a sack of potatoes, and a second a small knife.

Elani gripped the knife tightly as the other two quickly shed their wet boots and socks. "I don't think we should stay here."

"Can't we rest for a little while?" Pan suggested, choosing one of the potatoes. "The Careers won't be out hunting – not yet. Someone can stand guard tonight, and we can leave in the morning. Maybe by then the rain will stop."

Elani wasn't sure he was right about that. But he _was _right about needing rest. There were three of them. They were armed – with a potato knife, but it was better than nothing. They weren't likely to find a better place to rest for the night.

But if they stayed now, would she be able to convince them to leave later?

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

Sooner or later, they would have to leave.

Delvin eyed the hovercraft from his position just beyond the tree line. Staying so close to the cornucopia was risky, he knew, but it might be worth it. Eventually, the Careers would have to leave. And, by his count, there were only four of them. Even if they split up and left someone to guard the hovercraft while the rest of them went hunting, they could only leave one guard. Two, at the most. But probably one, unless there was something particularly important inside.

He had no doubt that there was _something_. The Gamemakers wouldn't leave the hovercraft unless there was something useful inside. Maybe some supplies hidden in the cockpit. At the very least, there were parts that could be used as weapons. And even if the Careers had the chance to loot it first, they couldn't take everything with them. And they might not think of everything. All he needed was a chance to look – a chance to find what they wouldn't see, what they would overlook.

But first they had to leave.

So far, the four of them had only emerged to place Ciere's body outside the hovercraft so it could be taken. But they hadn't killed Ciere; Delvin had seen that much before fleeing the cornucopia. The other girl from Four had nearly killed her by the time Delvin had run. And the only other body the hovercraft had retrieved had been farther down along the beach. The Careers in the hovercraft now hadn't been responsible for any deaths during the bloodbath.

Which meant they would be restless. Eager to do something. Sooner or later, they would have to leave. Then it would be his turn.

Delvin crouched a little lower. He might be waiting a while. The idea of staying in the hovercraft, where they were safe from the rain, obviously appealed to some of them – otherwise, they would have left already. But he had heard shouting not long after the bloodbath. Clearly, they didn't all agree on the best course of action.

It was only a matter of time before their impatience won out.

And he was in no hurry. The rest of his alliance was out there somewhere, of course, but, even if he wanted to go looking for them immediately, he had no idea where to start. They could be anywhere. He needed some sort of direction before he struck out blindly, or he would never find them.

Maybe there was something in the hovercraft. A map. Some sort of guidance system he could use to find the other hovercraft. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe he would be better off _not _finding his alliance. Who knew if they were still alive? Who knew what sort of condition they might be in?

Who knew if they would even be happy to see him?

They had been split apart for a reason, after all. He was part of a different group. One of the replacements. He hadn't given much thought before to the fact that he was the only 'replacement' tribute in the group. But the Gamemakers had been trying from the beginning to drive a wedge between the two groups of tributes. What if it worked? What if the others wouldn't even want to find him?

What if he was alone?

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

He was alone.

Beckett clenched his fists as he stumbled through the rain, trying not to trip over every branch in his path as he ran. Where were Indira and Shale? Where were the rest of the tributes?

And where were all the cannons?

There had only been seven. Six cannons during the bloodbath, and one shortly after. With forty-six tributes, that didn't seem nearly enough. There were still thirty-nine of them. Still thirty-eight other tributes to worry about.

But he couldn't worry about them all right now. For the moment, it seemed, he was safe. Either no one had seen which way he had run, or no one had been interested in chasing him. Not when there were other targets. More dangerous targets.

Larger groups.

Beckett stopped for a moment, catching his breath. Okay. Okay. First things first. He had water. Well, everyone had water. Water wasn't going to be a problem. Food, then. He glanced around, but the trees didn't seem to contain anything particularly appealing. Maybe some of the leaves or bark were edible, but he wasn't that desperate.

Not yet.

Shelter, maybe. Beckett staggered forwards again in the rain. There was a slope ahead. Rocky. Steep. That was probably as good a place as any. Better, maybe, since other tributes might prefer to avoid the strenuous climb. But years of manual labor had given him endurance, if nothing else. Beckett made his way to the slope and slowly began climbing.

About halfway up, he saw it. A hole in the rocks. A cave, maybe. Yes, he realized as he got closer. Not just one cave, but several. One was barely large enough for him to fit inside, but a second stretched back farther into the hill. Beckett quickly ducked inside, out of the rain.

Perfect.

Water. Shelter. Not bad for the first day. Not bad for being alone. Not bad, but not all that good, either. He had no food. No weapons. No means of protecting himself if another tribute happened to find him.

Beckett inched his way towards the back of the cave. Who would be looking here? He hadn't even been able to see that there _were _caves until he'd started climbing. Surely any groups that would be on the hunt would look somewhere a bit more accessible first. They probably wouldn't find him any time soon.

Probably.

Beckett peered out the mouth of the cave. He would be able to see them coming, if they did come looking. Quickly, he gathered a few of the rocks that lay around the mouth of the cave. It wasn't much – and certainly wouldn't be a match for a group of tributes with real weapons – but it was better than nothing.

Besides, he hadn't seen any real weapons. Or a real cornucopia. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe these rocks were as good as it was going to get. Beckett smiled at the thought – the idea of a bunch of Careers running around hitting each other with rocks.

As long as they didn't start attacking _him _with rocks, it was a pretty amusing image. Beckett leaned back against the wall of the cave. The rain would have to let up sooner or later. He could stay here, get some rest, dry off, and head out again when the rain stopped. Indira and Shale were out there somewhere. Maybe they were even looking for him. But that could wait. It could all wait.

For now, he had what he needed.

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

For now, they had what they needed.

Eleanor allowed herself a small smile as she and Barry scrambled over rock after rock. The coast had turned from sand to rocks after the shore had taken a sharp turn to the right. They'd had to slow their pace, but speed wasn't the most important thing right now. Neither was the rain that constantly pelted them. Or the waves lapping at the rocks, making them slippery. They already had the most important thing they needed.

They were still alive.

They had made it away from the bloodbath alive. Unharmed. And together. Everything else was secondary. Everything else could wait.

Well, everything except water, maybe, but there wasn't exactly a shortage of that. Eleanor cupped her hands to her mouth and took another drink. The water surrounding the island was salty, but the rainwater was fresh. She and Barry were both sopping wet, but at least they didn't have to worry about going thirsty.

Which probably meant finding food should be their next priority. She had been looking, of course, but, so far, had seen nothing but seaweed along the rocks. And while she seemed to recall something about certain varieties of seaweed being edible, neither of them was quite that desperate.

Not yet.

Eleanor shook her head. She couldn't quite imagine ever being _that _desperate. Brennan had mentioned eating rats during his Games. Raw. Bloody. Eleanor scrambled over another rock, trying not to imagine being _that _hungry. Being driven _that _far.

"Up there! Look!"

Eleanor turned to where Barry was pointing. Through the rain, she could see some sort of bird had landed on one of the larger rock faces. Without another word, Barry smirked, removed his boots, and quickly clambered up the steeper slope. Eleanor stayed at the bottom, watching. Waiting. Hoping he wouldn't slip. She saw him reach the top, stuff something in his pockets. Immediately, he scrambled back down, unharmed.

Eleanor bit her tongue, not wanting to admit she was impressed. That she would have hesitated a lot more than that before risking tumbling off that high a slope. And for what? "What did you find?"

Barry smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced two light brown, speckled eggs a little smaller than his fists. "Lunch."

Eleanor smiled, trying to hide her hesitation as Barry handed her one. He cracked his open immediately, drinking what was inside without any question about whether it was safe, whether or not he should. Not wanting to appear squeamish, Eleanor quickly did the same. The liquid inside was smooth and slimy, but surprisingly good.

Or maybe she was simply hungry.

Eleanor clapped Barry on the back. "Nice work." And, to her surprise, she meant it. Eggs weren't a source of food she would have considered. She would have assumed any mutts on the island would be too dangerous to steal eggs from. But Barry hadn't thought twice about the attempt, and it had paid off.

She just hoped their luck held out.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

Their luck wouldn't hold out forever.

Zach watched from a distance as the pair from Twelve shared their meal. He should have attacked while he'd had the chance – while the boy had been climbing. He could have taken out the girl, then the boy as well once he climbed down. He could have.

But he hadn't.

He had hesitated. By the time he'd really considered it, the boy had been on his way down. It had been too late.

Another failed plan.

Zach clenched his teeth. He was keenly aware that his performance in the Games so far had been … well, less than perfect. He had run from the cornucopia, leaving Mavina to be killed by the other Career group. Jarlan and Imalia were nowhere to be found. And here he was, chasing the pair from Twelve, too cautious to make the first move.

But there were two of them. And he was alone. He hadn't expected to be alone – not this early on. He had expected to stay with his alliance until … well, he wasn't exactly sure, but longer than this. If only he had an ally with him – or even a weapon. Then he wouldn't have hesitated to attack.

Would he?

Zach shook the thought form his head. Of course he would have attacked. That was what he was trained for, after all. What he had volunteered for. It was only their advantage in numbers that was stopping him now. But, eventually, that would change. Sooner or later, they would have to rest. They would have to sleep.

Then he could make his move.

As far as he could tell, they didn't even have any idea they were being followed. He was watching from a little farther inland, near the tree line. Their attention wasn't on him. They were simply focused on getting as far away from the cornucopia as they could. But, eventually, they would tire.

And they would tire before he would.

Yes. Yes, that was the right choice. The right plan. Let them tire themselves out. Then attack when they were weaker. When they decided to stop for the night, when they decided to sleep – then he would be ready.

That would be his chance. His chance to make up for his failure during the bloodbath. Not that there was anything he could really have done differently. It wasn't his fault Jarlan and Imalia weren't in the same hovercraft. And what was he supposed to do to save Mavina? Stay and take on four other Careers by himself?

No. No, he had made the right choice. Not an impressive choice, but the right one. The safe one. He couldn't afford to play it safe forever, of course. Eventually, he would have to take a chance. But not yet. He didn't need to do anything risky just yet.

Camden hadn't fared so well during the bloodbath herself, he remembered. She had ended up alone, on the run from the other Careers. And she had managed to turn her luck around. So why couldn't he? All he needed was the right opportunity. An opportunity that was sure to present itself eventually.

All he had to do was be ready.

* * *

**Kit Rawlins  
****District Eight Mentor**

He had thought he was ready for this.

Kit huddled in a chair in the corner of the room, watching. Carolina and Lander had already come over to check on him – twice – but he didn't want to bother them. They were busy worrying about the tributes who were still alive. Adelia. Jediah. Ivira. Louis.

Baylor.

Kit sank deeper into his chair, wishing he could disappear. Carolina and Lander had already managed to send Baylor a gift. They had even attached his name to it alongside their own, but he had done nothing to help. He was just sitting here, too terrified to talk to the sponsors. Too afraid to talk to anyone. To say anything.

Because the last time he had said something…

Kit wrapped his arms around his chest. The last time he had said something, he had sparked a rebellion. A rebellion that had ended in death. So much death. So many lives destroyed forever – in the most brutal, horrifying ways – all because he hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut.

He hadn't meant to. He hadn't meant to get anyone killed. He had only meant to apologize – to apologize for the deaths of his allies. To say that he was sorry. But, once he had said that, it hadn't taken him long to say that he had been wrong to kill them. That he shouldn't have betrayed them, even when it seemed he had no other choice. That there _had _been another choice.

And people – hopeful, idealistic people – had latched onto that last idea. The idea that there _was _another choice. That tributes in the Games could simply choose _not _to kill each other. And that, if they did, the Gamemakers would have no choice but to honor that decision.

It was his fault. His fault the tributes last year had thought they had a chance. His fault their families had been executed. His fault the tributes had been tortured. His fault Avery had been forced to execute eleven of her allies. All of it – every blow, every drop of blood – it all came back to him.

He wished he could go back. Take back the hasty, careless words that had cost so many lives. But he couldn't. So the next best thing was to make sure no one ever died because of his words again.

"Mind if I join you?"

Kit nearly jumped in surprise. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed the other mentor approaching. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you," Nicodemus said gently. "I just wanted to come over and say hello. I know how rough mentoring for the first time can be, and I wanted you to know … well, I'm here if you need anything."

Kit looked away. Of all the people he didn't want to talk to, Nicodemus was pretty high on the list. What had happened to him … Kit was partially responsible. If the tributes hadn't rebelled, if Snow hadn't ordered their families' execution, Nicodemus would never have been harmed.

And the fact that he was being so kind now only made it worse. Only served as a reminder that he hadn't deserved what had happened. He was offering his support despite everything that had happened to him, and despite the fact that Kit's tribute had just killed one of his own. Cordelia had attacked Baylor, of course, but that didn't change the fact that he had killed her. That Cordelia was dead. That _three _of District Six's tributes were now dead.

Nicodemus laid a crooked hand gently on Baylor's shoulder. "If you want to be alone, I understand. Part of the reason I came over here, I suppose. It was a bit too crowded over there. Being with so many other people who share the same experience, the same pain … it can be overwhelming. But it can also be healing. And sometimes it can be both at the same time." He smiled a little. "Just know that whenever you're ready … we're here."

With that, he turned and slowly wheeled back the way he had come. Kit closed his eyes, leaning back against the cushions of the chair. He wasn't ready. Maybe he would never be ready. How could he be? How could he accept their support, when he couldn't forgive himself? He didn't deserve the comfort they were offering.

He deserved to be alone.

* * *

"_We have to stop waiting. We need to start figuring things out … It's time to start organizing. We need to figure out how we're going to survive here."_


	34. Significant

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "final eight" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who your favorite district pair/group is. Feel free to vote for as many as you want, and use whatever criteria you like. This poll isn't likely to have any sort of effect on the Games; I'm just curious.

* * *

**Day One  
****Significant**

* * *

**Harriet Bard  
****District Two Mentor**

The tributes were in for some long nights.

Harriet watched silently as the arena grew darker. It was only a little past six in the afternoon, but between the thick cloud cover and the pouring rain, it seemed much later. She'd faced the opposite extreme in her arena. In the frozen tundra, the sun had barely set for an hour or two. But the key to handling either was the same: patience.

Patience, of course, was something many Careers seemed to lack. They had trained their whole lives for this. So, naturally, once they were in the arena, they wanted to start _doing _things as soon as possible. They wanted to use what they'd learned, show off for the audience, prove themselves to the Capitol and to their loved ones at home.

Which was all well and good – and something she hadn't been immune to herself – but it sometimes led to a tendency to rush into things. Which was why she was grateful that Naella, Jaime, and Inviticus, at least, hadn't fallen into that pattern. They were still inside the hovercraft, still searching for any sort of supplies they could use.

And they'd found their fair share. Inside the cockpit, they'd found a toolbox containing a wrench, a few screwdrivers, and a small pocketknife. They had taken the seats apart to use as bedding. A brief foray into the jungle had yielded several handfuls of berries, which they were sorting through at the moment. In the morning, they were planning to scour the shallow waters for clams, oysters, crabs, fish, or anything else they could eat before setting out in search of tributes.

All in all, not a bad plan.

"Looks like they've got it made, huh?" Balthasar smiled, settling into a seat beside her. Harriet smiled back. He was much more relaxed than Mortimer would have been. Mortimer knew what he was doing, of course, but he was almost as impatient as some of the tributes. Balthasar seemed to understand the value of keeping calm.

"Septimus isn't doing so bad, either," Harriet pointed out. Septimus and his allies were still making their way inland, foraging as they went. Between the five of them – two of them from Nine and one from Seven – they seemed pretty certain about what was safe to eat. Each of them had managed to find a large, club-like branch, though a few of them didn't look particularly thrilled about the prospect of using them.

Balthasar nodded. "So far, so good, it seems – for both of us." He gave her a good-natured clap on the back.

Harriet smiled back. Even though Septimus and Naella weren't allies, they weren't anywhere near the stage of the Games where they would be driven together to fight. Naella and her allies would likely stay at the hovercraft as long as they could, venturing out during the day to hunt, while Septimus seemed content to move his alliance inland, where they wouldn't be competing with each other.

Not yet, at least. Eventually, everyone was competition. But it was only the first day. And a very long first day it had been, too. Harriet raised her glass towards her fellow mentor. "To District Two?"

Balthasar's glass clinked against hers. "To District Two." They both took a long drink. Harriet was almost laughing when she finally set her glass down.

She could get used to this.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

She could get used to this.

Naella sat cross-legged by the hovercraft door, twirling the wrench they had found, just watching the rain. It was quickly growing darker outside. Maybe because of the rain, maybe simply because time seemed to move differently in the arena. Harriet had always told the trainees that days had seemed longer in her arena, that every moment seemed to stretch on forever when everyone was on edge.

But she wasn't really on edge. Not yet. Compared to what she had been expecting, the bloodbath had been almost mild. They had held the cornucopia, such as it was, without any real competition. Even Inviticus seemed to be in a better mood than normal – perhaps a bit mollified by the fact that, between the three of them, they had taken out two of District Four's tributes.

Some of their toughest competition was already gone.

Not that the girl had really been competition. But Auster – she had respected him, at least. Perhaps not as an equal, but at least as a comrade. He had earned the right to be here.

And now he was gone.

But Jaime had made the decision, and, once the choice had been made, Naella didn't really have any option but to back her up. Auster had been careless enough to attack Inviticus, too set in his plan to realize that, with Kendall and Brevin nowhere to be found, they needed to keep their numbers as strong as possible.

Now they were only three. Exactly what she had been opposed to during training, when Inviticus had wanted to go it alone, to avoid inviting anyone from Four into their alliance. She hadn't wanted the three of them to be on their own in the arena.

And now they were. But the circumstances were different. Instead of facing several larger groups, the only group in the area that was larger than their own was Septimus'. And who did he have? The girl from Five – a semi-Career at best – and three outer-district tributes without an ounce of real training, real experience.

And, from what she had seen, he wasn't interested in the cornucopia. Nor should he have been, Naella knew. They'd found a few supplies, but nothing substantial. The most important benefit of having the hovercraft to themselves was shelter from the rain.

That was reason enough, of course, to stay – at least for a little while. And when the time came to hunt, they could easily carry everything of value with them. A wrench, a pocketknife, a screwdriver – all were decent weapons in a pinch, and they had gathered several branches to sharpen into spears. In the unlikely event that anyone came to explore the hovercraft while they were gone, they would find nothing significant, and, when the three of them returned, they could simply attack anyone who happened to be foolish enough to think they could stay.

It was a simple enough plan, and Naella had agreed readily when Jaime had proposed it – especially since the only alternative would be leaving someone to guard the hovercraft alone. Plans could change, of course – they already had – but it was as good a place as any to start.

And they had to start somewhere.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

They had to start somewhere.

Adelia fought to keep a smile on her face as she and her allies neared the top of the hill. Heading uphill had seemed like a good idea at first. Other tributes, she had figured, would be less likely to attempt the climb. And maybe they would be able to see something useful from the top, get a feel for their surroundings.

But it was getting too dark, too quickly, to see anything. She could barely see well enough to avoid crashing into trees in the dark and the rain. Still, she tried to smile. Because even if she couldn't see, the cameras could see _her_. Her family could see her. The Capitol, the sponsors, her mentors – they could all see her. Maybe someone could send something to help them.

What, though? What they really needed was shelter from the rain, but that wasn't exactly going to come in a parachute. And, other than that, they were doing fairly well for themselves. They'd managed to collect what had proven, so far, to be edible berries and roots before it had grown dark. They had water to spare. And their alliance was in tact.

Thanks to her. Thanks to what she and Carolina had figured out about the groups of tributes. Because she had sought out other allies from the 'replacement' group, she didn't have to worry about scouring the island for the others. They were the largest group in the area – maybe in the whole arena.

Did that mean they should take the initiative? Attack other tributes? She had intended to form a large group mostly for protection, but would the audience be expecting them to take advantage of their position? How long would they be content to watch such a large group simply trekking through the jungle?

Adelia shook the thought from her head. Until they actually _saw _another tribute, there wasn't much point in debating whether or not they should attack anyone. Other than her own allies, she hadn't seen any other tributes since the bloodbath. As far as she could tell, they were alone in their portion of the arena.

That wouldn't last forever, of course, but, while it did, they might as well take advantage of it. They could rest in relative safety pretty much anywhere they wanted. Someone would have to keep watch, of course, but who would be able to find them when they could barely see three feet in front of them?

Suddenly, a yelp behind her alerted Adelia to the fact that one of the others had tripped. Adelia turned, but, in the dark, she couldn't even see who had stumbled. "Is everyone all right?"

"Yeah," Nadine answered immediately. "I just … Well, I can't really see very well."

_That makes six of us._ "Let's stop for a while," Adelia suggested, knowing full well that 'for a while' would likely turn into 'for the night.' But they weren't exactly likely to find shelter, and, failing a building of some sort appearing out of thin air, one tree was as good as another to take shelter under for the night.

Quickly, the six of them huddled together beneath the largest tree they could find. The branches didn't keep all the rain off, but it was better than nothing.

It would have to do for now.

* * *

**Kendall Rios, 18  
****District Four**

Two kills would have to do for now.

Kendall kicked a rock as Brevin settled down under a large tree near the edge of the jungle. She had been hoping to be able to do some hunting after dark. But dark had come sooner than she'd expected, and the darkness was absolute. Even a Career couldn't be expected to navigate the arena with no light at all, and there was no hope of lighting a fire in this downpour.

They would simply have to wait.

Kendall paced back and forth, nearly tripping in her clunky boots. Waiting had never been her strongest suit. Brevin, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to spend the night along the shore. He had even taken off his boots, as if at any moment he might simply decide to go wading in the ocean.

Kendall shook her head. Maybe he wasn't her ideal ally, but at least he'd gotten the job done. He'd been able to choke the life out of the boy from Six, something she hadn't been certain he would have the guts to do. Maybe he hadn't really enjoyed it – or even appeared to find it slightly satisfying – but he had done it, nonetheless. He had killed.

And that was what counted.

So District Four had at least two kills. That was something. The night before the Games – less than twenty-four hours ago, Kendall realized in surprise – Naomi had said that, if they were going to have any chance of restoring District Four's reputation, they had to give the president a reason to change his mind. They had to change the Capitol's mind. And killing two tributes in the bloodbath? Well, that seemed like a pretty good way to start.

But, so far, it was only that: a start. Now they couldn't lose that momentum – not even for a moment. Which was probably why it felt so wrong to rest. To sit down and stop for the night when she could have kept going for hours, if she could only see. But what was the alternative? Push on blindly in the dark in the hopes of stumbling upon another tribute?

No, resting would be better. They had time. Plenty of time. There were still thirty-nine tributes left in the arena. There was no need to get impatient. Not yet.

But she _was _impatient. Their prey was out there somewhere. Huddled in the dark. Probably hiding. Probably resting. Probably hoping – quite correctly – that no one was going to come looking for them until dawn.

"Now would be a good time for some light, Naomi," Kendall muttered. But she knew better. Even if she and Brevin had made an impression during the bloodbath, Capitolites weren't exactly going to be rushing to sponsor them. Not without the rest of their pack.

The rest of their pack. Kendall stopped in mid-pace, surprised by how easily she had forgotten that they were out there somewhere. How quickly she had resigned herself to the idea that it was just her and Brevin now. That she couldn't count on being able to find the others. That maybe she didn't even want to.

Maybe they were better off alone.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

Maybe he was better off alone.

Domingo huddled under a tree in the dark, trying to block out the pouring rain. He hadn't meant to lose track of Calantha, but he had been so focused on getting away from Audra, he hadn't thought to keep track of which way she had gone. For all that he knew, the other two had caught her. Killed her. How many cannons had there been since Audra had let him go? For all he knew, one of them had been hers.

For all he knew, he was alone.

Gadget was dead; that much, he was certain of. Ivira … well, for all he knew, she could be on the other side of the island. And there had been two tributes chasing Calantha. Unless they had let her go, or unless she had been able to outrun or outmaneuver them, then she was probably dead, as well.

And the worst part was, he wasn't sorry. Gadget was dead. Maybe the others were dead, too. But at least _he _wasn't dead – or even seriously hurt. He was alive. Maybe that was all that counted.

Maybe it was even better this way.

Domingo tucked his knees to his chest, wishing there was some part of him that wasn't wet. Wasn't cold. Maybe it was better to be alone. Alone, he could admit that he was miserable. That he was tired and wet and cold and hungry. Alone, no one would tell him to stop complaining or to grow up.

Alone, maybe he could admit just how afraid he was.

Of course, there were always the cameras. The sponsors. But, now that it came down to it, they didn't seem as important. They were there, of course, but were they really going to decide his fate? Was anyone really planning to sponsor him, anyway?

It wasn't as if he'd done anything impressive. He'd let one ally get killed, lost another, and hadn't seen head or tail of the third. He was alive only because his district partner had been too afraid to kill him when she'd had the chance. Only because she had been the one chasing him, rather than the pair from Nine. He had been lucky so far. Very, very lucky.

He couldn't count on getting that lucky a second time.

But, at the same time, there was nothing he could really have done differently. Nothing except pick different allies, perhaps, but there was no way he could have known. No way anyone could have predicted what had happened. No way he could have known that Gadget would choose to stay and take her chances against the Careers. No way he could have known that they would be separated from Ivira.

None of it was his fault.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

None of it was his fault.

Thane cast a sideways glance at Sariya as the five of them settled down for the night. She seemed oddly – almost irritatingly – at ease with what had happened. As if she didn't mind at all that they had lost their chance to prove themselves worthy of the pack they had been asked to join.

It was her fault, after all. If she hadn't tripped – if he hadn't stopped to wait for her – the other girl would never have gotten away. Not wanting to take on an opponent alone, he had hesitated. And it had cost him.

It had cost both of them.

He hadn't said so in front of Septimus, of course. He couldn't afford to be seen blaming his district partner – even if it _was _her fault. They would have to work together for quite a while still. They had to be able to trust each other.

But _could _he trust her?

Thane leaned back against a tree, still uncertain. He couldn't shake the thought that maybe Sariya had done it on purpose. Maybe she had tripped at just the right time. Maybe she had made it look like an accident because she hadn't wanted to kill the girl, but also hadn't wanted to appear weak. Hadn't wanted to admit that she wasn't ready to kill.

Thane clenched his fists. He was probably imagining things. Sariya was as desperate to prove herself as he was. She knew that they couldn't rely on Septimus to pull the weight in their alliance forever – not if one of them wanted to win.

In the end, of course, it didn't matter what she thought. What she did. Because he didn't want 'one of them' to win. _He _wanted to win. And, in order for that to happen, sooner or later, Sariya would have to go.

But not yet. Right now, they had the advantage in numbers. They were the largest group in the area – maybe in the whole arena. They couldn't afford to lose that advantage so early in the Games.

"Are you sure we shouldn't have stayed at the cornucopia?"

Sariya's question caught Thane off guard. He understood where she was coming from, of course. The cornucopia – or, more accurately, the hovercraft – may not have contained any useful supplies, but at least it would have been a shelter. There were five of them. They may have been able to take on the other alliances, claim the hovercraft for their own.

But Septimus simply shook his head. "No. It may seem like an advantage right now, but, sooner or later, they'll have to abandon the hovercraft and head inland."

"Because that's where the other tributes are?" Liana ventured a guess.

"That, but also something more important," Septimus answered, leaning forward a little. "Think it through. Since we've arrived, what hasn't stopped?"

Silence for a moment. "The rain?" Thane offered.

"The rain," Septimus confirmed. "And what happens when there's too much rain? And what will be the first place to become a bit too … deep for comfort?"

No one answered, but they were all putting the pieces together. "Sooner or later, they'll have to head inland," Septimus concluded. "Inland and uphill." He shrugged.

"Might as well get a head start."

* * *

**Pan Soya, 12  
****District Eleven**

They already had quite a head start.

Pan huddled close to Elani and Philus in the corner of the cabin nearest the door. So far, everything had turned out so differently from what he'd expected. He had expected to be frightened out of his wits, running for his life for the rest of the Games. Instead, he was relatively safe. They had shelter. Food. Water. Even a weapon. All of his allies were still alive. And they were together.

That was probably about as good as it got in the Games.

It wasn't as if he wasn't afraid, of course. But it wasn't the same constant, paralyzing terror he'd expected. It was more of a silent voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that even though he might be relatively comfortable, he still wasn't safe.

But, right now, that voice was drowned out by the one reminding him how tired he was. How far they had walked earlier in the pounding rain. How far, exactly, it had been, Pan wasn't sure. But it felt like miles. It felt like they should be on the other side of the island by now. The other tributes – wherever they were – were probably far, far away.

Suddenly, the sound of the Capitol anthem interrupted his thoughts. The three of them glanced outside. The rain didn't stop, but the projections were low enough, or bright enough, that they could see them, nonetheless.

The first face belonged to one of the girls from Four. Then one of the boys from Four, as well. Pan cocked an eyebrow. Two Careers, on the very first day. Not a bad stroke of luck. The brother and sister from Six were next, followed by one of the boys from the same district. They were followed by a girl from Seven, and, last, one of the girls from Eight.

And that was it. Seven deaths. So many extra tributes, and only seven deaths so far. Pan leaned back against the wall. In the fading lights from the sky, he thought he saw Elani smile a little. "What is it?"

"Shale," Elani answered quietly. "He's still alive, too."

Pan nodded. Maybe that wasn't supposed to be a good thing. After all, aside from the Careers, Shale was probably one of their strongest opponents. And their older district partner hadn't exactly been kind. But he had never been cruel, either – just distant. And he _had _wished them luck.

Maybe that wasn't much, but it was something. It meant that maybe he was one of the few tributes in the arena who wouldn't kill them on sight. Who might hesitate a little before slitting their throats or bashing their brains out or—

_Stop it._

Pan took a few deep breaths. There was no point in wondering what might happen if they ran into Shale somewhere in the arena. Most likely, it would never happen. They had run directly away from the cornucopia. The last he had seen of Shale, one of his allies had been asking the Careers if the offer still stood.

Whatever offer that was. Probably an offer to join them. And, if that was the case, Shale was probably still back at the hovercraft. Safe and sound and dry just like them – but a long ways away.

Maybe that wasn't so bad.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

Maybe this wasn't so bad.

Ivira gripped Presley's hand tightly as the two trudged onward in the dark. Maybe they should have stopped by now. Maybe. But it was almost as if there was something urging her forwards. Some strange certainty that they were about to come across something significant.

She just wished she could see what it was.

The darkness was growing, and the rain wasn't helping, but, so far, they'd managed not to run into any trees. Maybe that wasn't much, but it was something. And every step was a little more distance between them and the cornucopia. Between them and tributes who might have supplies. Weapons.

Food.

Ivira shook her head, trying not to think of food. She and Presley had found some berries earlier, but neither of them was quite certain whether they were safe to eat or not. And neither of them was willing to take the risk. Not yet.

Just as Ivira was beginning to wonder whether now might be a good time to put that to the test, the ground disappeared beneath her feet, and she and Presley tumbled forwards. But the fall wasn't far, and something broke it. Something that crunched beneath their weight.

"Are you all right?" Presley asked quietly, perhaps fearful that any noise might attract attention.

Ivira nodded, then realized it was probably too dark to see. "I think so. Just a bit bruised. You?"

"I'm all right. What do you think that—"

Presley's question was cut short by the beginning of the Capitol anthem. As the emblem filled the sky, they could at last see what had happened. The pair of them were lying in a pit, perhaps four or five feet deep, twice as long, and twice as wide. They were surrounded by bones, which had also been the source of the crunching noise.

Ivira's mind raced as the faces of the first two tributes – a girl and boy from Four – flashed in the sky. Bones. Too old and dry to belong to the tributes who had died so far. And too many bones. Most seemed in tact, but a few were charred, and others were broken – and not just from their fall. What if…?

Ivira's train of thought was cut short as more faces flashed in the sky. Cordelia. Paget. Alexi. All from District Six. All Presley's allies.

Presley simply stared, speechless. They had known about Alexi, of course, but the others – they were a surprise. A girl from seven appeared, and then Gadget. Ivira nodded, unsurprised. Gadget had been useful, but she would never have lasted on her own. Presley, on the other hand…

The younger girl was putting on a brave face, but her mood had dropped considerably. "They're dead," she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. "They're all dead."

Ivira wrapped an arm around Presley's shoulders. "Yes, they are," she said softly. "But you know what?" She smiled a little in the dying light from the projections in the sky.

"We can avenge them."

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

She could avenge them.

Presley clung to that thought as she and Ivira searched through the bones for anything that might be useful. The darkness made it difficult, but, every so often, a flash of lightning would illuminate the area. It was during one of those flashes that she found what she was looking for – a pair of hammers, hidden amongst the bones.

Maybe it wasn't much of a weapon, Presley thought as she handed one to Ivira. But it was something. And once they proved themselves to the sponsors, once they showed the Capitol what they could do…

_Give them what they want to see_, Nicodemus had said. And surely he would say the same thing now. Now that all of her allies were dead. Now that he had lost three tributes in one day. Surely he would agree that it was time to act.

Presley fingered the hammer as she glanced up at Ivira. "Now what?"

Ivira shrugged. "Now we wait."

Wait. That wasn't what she had expected to hear. Didn't Ivira have a plan? Hadn't she just suggested that they could avenge the people they had lost? How were they supposed to do that if they waited here?

Ivira seemed to sense her disappointment. "Think about it. If we go out there, what are the chances we'll just happen to stumble across a tribute we think we can handle? Isn't it better to bring them to us?"

That made sense. Presley shrugged a little. "Sure. But how?"

Ivira smirked. "How's your acting?"

"My acting?"

"Sure. Little thirteen-year-old tribute crying over the deaths of her three allies. You scurry up there where someone will be able to see you if they come along. You put on a show, lure them down here. Either they'll take pity on you and try to comfort you, or they'll see you as an easy target and try to kill you. Either way … I'll be waiting for them."

Presley cocked an eyebrow. It seemed a little too easy. "And you think someone's just going to … come along?"

Ivira shrugged. "Now that we've told the Gamemakers our plan? Absolutely."

Presley hesitated. Counting on the Gamemakers to help them – it seemed risky. But maybe it was a better option than venturing out into the jungle in search of other tributes in the dark. "All right," she agreed. "Let's give it a try. And if it doesn't work … well, we haven't exactly lost anything."

"That's the spirit," Ivira agreed readily, giving Presley a boost out of the pit. "Just try to look as sad as you can. Pitiful. You just lost your allies, remember?"

She remembered. As she climbed out of the pit, Presley did her best to look lost and pitiful. But thinking of Cordelia, Paget, and Alexi didn't make her sad. It made her angry. Angry that she hadn't been able to do anything. She had been helpless to save them. Helpless, just like she had felt for so many years in the orphanage. Before she had taken matters into her own hands.

"Sad, not angry," Ivira chided when another flash of lightning allowed her to see. "No one's going to come after you if you _look _like you're going to murder them."

She was right. Presley clenched her teeth, biting back her anger. Trying to let sadness surface instead. But it didn't help. Nothing helped. "I don't know…" she said at last. "How do I…?"

Ivira sighed. "It's not _that_ hard."

Presley glared. "If it's not that hard, then why don't _you _do it?"

"Because you look less threatening than I do." Ivira thought for a moment. "Presley?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know where these bones came from?" Ivira asked in a whisper, handing one up to Presley. Presley turned it over in her hands. It was only half a bone, really. Broken. Shattered. Finally, she put it together.

And she began to cry.

* * *

**Calantha Harlyn, 16  
****District Ten**

She wished she could stop crying.

Calantha leaned back against a tree, her knees curled up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, trying to stay warm. The rain hadn't been particularly cold during the day, but now, in the dark, it seemed to chill her to the bone. She might have tried to light a fire, but how would any fire last in this rain? She wished the rain would stop – just for a little while. Just for a few minutes.

But it didn't. It just kept pouring. The only good thing was that it hid her tears. She couldn't even say for sure _why_ she was crying. Maybe because she was alone. Maybe because she knew Domingo was out there somewhere – probably somewhere very close – but she still hadn't been able to find him. And she didn't dare call out for him for fear of someone else answering.

They had almost caught her before, after all – the pair from Nine. If the girl hadn't tripped, if the boy hadn't stopped to help her … She wasn't sure what would have happened, but it couldn't have been good. Would they really have killed her? She wasn't sure, but she was glad she hadn't found out.

She was still alive.

Calantha clung to that thought as she shivered silently in the dark. Maybe she was wet. Maybe she was cold and tired and hungry. But she was alive. She was still here. And Domingo and Ivira were alive. Maybe she couldn't find them tonight, but tomorrow – when there was light – she could start looking.

Tomorrow.

Finally, Calantha lay down beneath the tree. She wasn't going to be able to find anyone tonight, so she might as well get some rest. No one would be out hunting in this weather – not in the dark. The Careers were probably tucked safely inside their hovercraft, while the boy from Two and his allies … well, she wasn't quite sure where they were. But she would probably hear them coming. There were five of them, after all; they couldn't exactly hide.

Besides, if they found her – asleep or awake – there wasn't much she could do. She wouldn't be able to outrun all five of them. She had been lucky to outrun two. She had nothing to fight with. So being killed in her sleep … maybe that would be the best way to go, given the option. That probably wasn't the right mindset at all, she knew, but she was too tired, too miserable, to care.

Calantha closed her eyes. The ground was hard, the roots beneath her jabbing into her chest and limbs. She shifted a little, trying to find a better position. But there was none. The roots were everywhere. The ground was uncomfortable, the roots hard, and the dirt beneath her was already mud. But, somehow, she finally drifted off to sleep, still clinging to that one thought.

She was still alive.

* * *

**Louis Soren, 14  
****District Eight**

He was still alive.

Louis clung to that thought as he slowly trudged forward in the dark, an occasional flash of lightning providing enough light to see by. He wasn't sure exactly what he expected to find, but he did know that he would never be able to sleep out here. Not in the cold and the rain, not without any sort of shelter.

And if he wasn't going to sleep, then he might as well keep moving. Louis leaned heavily on the staff he had fashioned as he trudged onwards. He might as well put as much distance as he could between himself and any tributes who might be impatient enough to be out hunting in the rain. They probably weren't, but, once dawn came again, any extra ground he covered during the night would be a good thing.

Suddenly, he heard something. At first, he wasn't sure over the rain, but, as he crept closer, a flash of lightning confirmed it. There was a little girl nearby, sitting at the edge of what looked like a pit, sobbing. Louis' mind raced, trying to place her, and, when the lightning flashed again, he recognized her. Presley. The youngest girl from Six.

No wonder she was crying. The faces in the sky had included three tributes from District Six – three tributes he was fairly certain had been her allies. Her _only _allies. She was alone.

And he had a weapon.

Still, Louis hesitated. When he'd taken the staff, he'd meant to use it for protection – not to attack crying little girls. But could he afford to pass up the opportunity? If he proved he was ready to kill, maybe the sponsors would send him something. A weapon. Some food. Maybe some clothes that were actually waterproof.

But only if he made a move.

Slowly, Louis crept closer. The next flash of lightning revealed the girl digging through one of her pockets, putting something in her mouth. That decided it. Even if he couldn't kill her, maybe he could threaten her or frighten her into giving him some food. He had found some berries along the way, but he hadn't been certain whether they were poisonous or not. But if _she _was eating them…

"Please don't hurt me."

Louis stopped, startled. Apparently, he hadn't been as quiet as he'd thought. He raised his staff in what he hoped was a threatening manner. "I don't want to. Just give me your food, and I'll … I'll be on my way." He wasn't sure whether it was true. Maybe it was. Maybe he didn't need the sponsors to send him anything yet. Maybe he just needed food. And she was so scared…

The girl didn't object. She simply thrust a handful of berries towards him, then dug in her pockets for another. "Here. Take it. Just … just let me go. Please."

Louis took a handful of the berries and stuffed them in his pocket. The second handful, he stuffed right into his mouth. They were sweet and juicy. Louis swallowed, pointing his stick at the girl. "You got lucky this time, kid. I'll just be on my way and we can both—" A sharp pain in his stomach cut him off. The berries. But…

Louis crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach. A flash of lightning showed not one girl, but _two _standing over him, each holding a hammer. "Nice work, Presley," the older girl grinned. "Now we know not to eat those ones."

_But she _was _eating them_. Or, at least, it had looked like she was. Louis couldn't help crying out in pain as his throat and stomach began to burn. He could taste blood in his mouth. The girls forward, hammers raised. Louis closed his eyes as the first one came down.

Soon, the cannon sounded.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

The cannon woke all of them.

Aleron turned to Adelia, startled. "You said we would be safe here," he whispered frantically. "You said no one would be hunting at night. If no one's out hunting, then what was _that_?"

"I said they _probably _wouldn't be hunting," Adelia hissed back. "And we don't know that they were. For all we know, someone ran into a tree or fell into a river or died of injuries they got _before _it got dark. Or maybe they were attacked by mutts. We don't know what happened, and we certainly don't know _where_, so go back to sleep."

_Go back to sleep. _As if it was that easy. And maybe it was for her; Adelia simply put her head back down and appeared to go back to sleep, leaving Jediah on guard as before. Jediah shrugged. "It's okay; we're all a bit nervous. You can stay up and watch with me if you want."

Aleron shook his head. He didn't want to stay up and watch. He didn't want to _stay _anywhere. They weren't safe _staying _anywhere. If the Gamemakers _had _sent mutts to spice things up a bit, it was probably because the tributes weren't being interesting enough. And what was less interesting than six teenagers sleeping in a jungle when they had the numbers to be _doing _something.

Slowly, Aleron stood up, stretching his limbs. "Where are you going?" Jediah asked before he'd taken more than a few steps.

"I need to … you know," Aleron finished awkwardly.

Jediah nodded. "Just don't go too far. It's not like anyone can see you, anyway."

Nonetheless, Aleron went a good thirty or forty paces before stopping to relieve himself. Strange, he realized, that they never seemed to show that onscreen. Brutal, grisly deaths of all sorts? Fine, perfect to showcase for all of Panem. But a tribute urinating? Better turn the cameras somewhere else.

Aleron smiled at the thought, wishing he knew where the nearest camera was so he could show them exactly what he thought of the Games so far. But there were no cameras to be found, so he simply zipped his jumpsuit back up again. Silently, he glanced around in the dark, then peered downhill – away from his sleeping allies. They had stopped because Adelia had been convinced they wouldn't be able to find anything in the dark. But what if there _was _something – something important – just waiting for them? Just a few feet in the other direction.

Aleron took one step. Then another. If there was – and if _he _was the one to find it – then the sponsors would love it. They would love _him_. And there were few things more beneficial in the Games than the sponsors' support. And his allies – if he found something that could help them all, then they would have to listen to him. They would have to follow whatever plan he suggested.

Maybe that would be enough to make _him _the leader.

Not that Adelia was a _terrible _leader, but she was too cautious. She had led them away from the cornucopia without a second thought, without considering that they were by far the largest group in the area. Maybe they could have stayed there. Maybe they could be warm and dry now, instead of traipsing through the rain and the mud.

Yes. Yes, that was it. He would find something. He would help them all. They would make him their leader. Then they would go _back _to the hovercraft, take it, and stay there where it was safe.

But first he had to prove himself.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

"This is our chance to prove ourselves!"

Shale leaned back against the hovercraft wall, doing his best to stay out of the argument. Ever since the most recent cannon had sounded – maybe half an hour ago – Imalia had been trying to convince Jarlan that now was the best time to go out and hunt. After all, there were other groups out there – maybe using the lighting to see by – so they should be, too.

And the worst part was, he was beginning to agree with her.

It wasn't that he wanted to hunt – not that he wanted to kill – but he understood her urge to do _something_. So far, they had simply sat in the safety of their hovercraft. No kills during the bloodbath. No exploring. No looking for food. They had done _nothing_. If they went out now, even if they didn't find any tributes, maybe they could find food.

And maybe that would be enough. Enough to convince the Capitol that they were worth taking an interest in. Right now, they were simply two outer-district tributes and two disgraced Careers whose only claim was that they had been the only ones interested in staying where they were. They hadn't fought – unless Jarlan and Imalia's arguing counted – and they hadn't killed. How long would the Gamemakers let them sit there?

Imalia crossed her arms. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you didn't _want _to go hunting. Maybe you don't even want to kill anyone."

Jarlan looked up, and Shale could tell that Imalia had struck a nerve. After what had happened the year before, after what had happened during the interviews, tributes from District Four couldn't afford to seem like they didn't _want _to fight. Was that why she was so tetchy? Was she worried that, if they did nothing, the Capitol might start to think they didn't want to fight, or, worse, that they didn't want _anyone _to fight?

If they didn't do something now, did they risk being considered rebels?

He couldn't risk that. Not with six brothers back home. Whatever happened to him in the arena, he couldn't afford to put their lives in danger, which was exactly what would happen if the Capitol began to see him as a rebel. Or even someone who might be sympathetic to the rebels.

That was enough to tip the balance. "I agree with Imalia," he said at last. "We should do _something_. This is the perfect opportunity. None of the tributes will be expecting anyone to be hunting at night – not in this weather. We'll have the element of surprise. We pick up an easy kill or two, maybe find some food along the way, and then come back. What do we have to lose?" he finished with a smile, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Shale watched as Jarlan registered his vote. It was two against one now. Sensing the tide was turning, Imalia glanced over at Indira. "What do you think?"

Shale had a feeling she wouldn't have asked unless she knew the answer. Indira hesitated a moment, but then nodded. "I'm with you. Let's go."

Finally, Jarlan conceded. "All right. But someone should stay here to guard the cornucopia."

"Hovercraft," Imalia corrected. "There's nothing worth guarding here. But I suppose you're volunteering."

Jarlan shrugged. "Shelter is shelter, which I'm sure you'll realize after an hour or two out in the rain. And since all of you seem so eager to go…"

Shale followed Imalia out the door. No, not eager. Eager was the wrong word. Even Imalia hadn't seemed eager to go. Just desperate. Desperate to prove herself. Almost as desperate as he was to convince the Capitol that he and Indira hadn't chosen to ally with a pair of rebels. But this hunting expedition could be a step in the right direction. Silently, the three of them gathered up a few rocks from the beach and set out.

There was no going back now.

* * *

**Nicodemus Ford  
****District Six Mentor**

There was no going back now.

Nicodemus watched silently as Presley and Ivira stepped back, allowing the hovercraft to come and collect Louis' body. Their first kill. And, if Presley was going to make it out alive, it wouldn't be her last.

Except it wasn't really her first kill, he reminded himself. And that much, at least, was evident in her bearing as she shook hands with Ivira. She was smiling. Proud. Proud of the way she had tricked Louis into testing the berries for them by pretending to eat them herself. Proud that she and her ally had clubbed Louis over the head with their hammers until the cannon sounded.

Nicodemus leaned back in his wheelchair, trying not to think about that. Trying not to think about the fact that it was no accident – hammers ending up in the hands of a tribute from District Six. Just like it was no accident that Presley had been the one to find those bones, broken and shattered. Whether the Gamemakers had managed to procure the actual bones of the people who had been executed last year – or whether Presley was simply meant to think they had – maybe that didn't matter. Ivira had managed to use it against her.

Or for her, maybe, depending on what happened now. He had no doubt that some of Presley's tears had been real. What Ivira had done was cruel … but what if it was necessary? What if finding those bones, and realizing what they represented, was what it took to give Presley a reason to fight – a reason beyond revenge against the Careers, revenge for her dead allies.

After all, revenge wasn't what had driven her to help kill Louis. Not really. He had threatened her, but only with a stick. Would he really have stood a chance against both her and Ivira in a fair fight? Probably not. She'd had no reason to fear him. That part had been an act.

And Louis had fallen for it. She had shown him what he'd wanted to see. He had wanted to believe he could threaten her. Wanted to believe he was intimidating enough to take what he wanted and simply move on. And Presley had used that.

And now they had the Capitol's attention.

Presley, the young murderess ready to strike again. And Ivira, who hadn't hesitated to kill a district partner. That sort of reputation was invaluable, especially when there was a tribute on the other side of the island who had hesitated to do just that. And sometimes reputation could be enough to save a tribute's life.

He'd gained his own reputation during the Games, after all, though he'd only found out about it afterwards. The Capitol had dubbed him the silent killer, and understandably so. He had spent his Games hiding in the tunnels beneath the arena, coming out only at night, killing other tributes who happened to be sleeping nearby and taking their supplies.

So what was the difference between him and Presley?

Not much, maybe. Nicodemus managed a smile as Presley and Ivira settled down for the night amid a pile of bones, their hammers in hand. The bones didn't matter. The hammers didn't matter. Let the Capitol have their fun. Let them think they were playing with him. If it brought him even a little closer to bringing a tribute home, it was worth it.

But it still hurt.

Nicodemus closed his eyes, fighting back the pain. The pain he had thought he had under control. The pain that had come flooding back with a vengeance as soon as Presley had raised a hammer to strike a helpless opponent who was already dying.

_Don't think about it. Breathe. Just breathe._

Suddenly, Nicodemus felt a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes, expecting Brennan or maybe Elijah. Instead, Kit stood hesitantly beside him, offering his silent support.

Nicodemus nodded, and Kit leaned in close. Nicodemus wrapped his arms around the boy. "It's all right," he whispered quietly. "It'll be all right. We'll be all right."

And that was enough – that little bit of comfort. Nicodemus held Kit close as the boy's tears spilled onto his shirt. His own pain had drawn Kit closer in a way his words never would have. He could offer support all he wanted, but what had finally opened the boy up was the chance to _give _comfort.

And now they could help each other.

* * *

"_You have a gift. And don't you think you're meant to do something significant with it?"_


	35. Courage

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in my "favorite district pair/group" poll if you haven't already.

Yep, another quick update. This chapter contains a few scenes I've had rattling around in my head for a while. And while it was a bit painful to finally get them out on paper, I couldn't really postpone them any more. So here they are.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Courage**

* * *

**Percival Kent  
****District Three Mentor**

He wasn't sure whether Aleron was brave or just stupid.

Percival drummed his fingers on the table as Miriam took a seat beside him. Both Horatio and India had settled down for the night, and Evander was sleeping soundly. Aleron, on the other hand, had yet to return to the group. Jediah shifted nervously, glancing from side to side, perhaps wondering how long he should wait before alerting the others.

How long it had been, Percival wasn't sure. Ten minutes, perhaps – maybe fifteen. But, on their screens, they could see what Jediah couldn't: Aleron wasn't going to be returning quickly. Since leaving the group, he had been heading steadily downhill. Ten minutes downhill meant a good twenty or thirty minute trek back up the steep slope. By the time he decided to turn around and make his way back to the group, they could be somewhere else entirely – especially if they decided to go looking for him.

_If _he decided to turn around. Percival wasn't sure exactly where Aleron thought he was going, but he was clearly interested in something. Maybe he had seen something during one of the flashes of lightning. Maybe he had heard something.

Percival just hoped he hadn't heard someone crying.

But Aleron wasn't particularly close to finding Presley and Ivira. In fact, he didn't seem to be close to anyone. He was heading west, away from practically every tribute in the arena. But that didn't mean he was safe. There were always mutts. Or a bolt of lightning could strike him. Or a tree could fall on him. Or…

Percival shook his head. Any of those things, of course, could happen just as easily if he'd stayed with the others. If anything, his actions were making the audience curious. Maybe that would be enough to keep the Gamemakers from interfering. Maybe.

Maybe that was the idea.

Maybe he had realized that the Gamemakers wouldn't leave them alone forever and decided to take the initiative. Maybe he reasoned that if he did something interesting enough, the Gamemakers wouldn't need to send mutts or drive other tributes in their direction to spice things up. Maybe he was being brave.

Percival hoped that was the case. Hoped Aleron wasn't simply striking out on his own in the middle of the night because he was restless. Because he couldn't sleep and wanted to do something.

Then again, he wouldn't be the first person to give in to his impatience.

All across the arena, tributes seemed to have trouble simply sitting still and sleeping. Probably had something to do with the rain, Percival reasoned. It was hard to sleep with rain constantly pounding your body.

But even the tributes who had some sort of shelter seemed restless. Inviticus was pacing back and forth inside the hovercraft while his two allies slept. Beckett had gotten up every few minutes, it seemed, to check and make sure no one was approaching the entrance to his cave. Philus had seemingly given up trying to sleep and had volunteered to watch, instead, and was now pacing uneasily about the cabin. Every so often, he stepped outside, stood in the rain for a while, and then headed back in. And Imalia, Shale, and Indira were headed south from the cornucopia, venturing out for what seemed to be no other reason than because they could.

But at least none of them had wandered off without the rest of their group.

Percival took another drink. Losing track of their allies, or simply becoming separated due to circumstances beyond their control – as so many of the tributes had done – that he could understand. He had become separated from his own allies during the bloodbath, after all. But for a tribute to simply get up and walk away from their alliance without any sort of explanation was … not unheard of, but usually not something that happened until later in the Games, when the alliance had begun to splinter and it was smarter to get away before it cracked completely.

But that wasn't what had driven Aleron away. His alliance had shown no sign of cracking. Adelia had snapped at him briefly, but only right after they had both been startled awake by the last cannon. That certainly wasn't a good enough reason to leave.

"Sometimes there isn't a reason."

Percival glanced up from his drink. "What?"

Miriam smiled a little. "I know that look. You're trying to work out what Aleron's doing – why he took off. Sometimes there isn't a good reason. Sometimes tributes just do things – stupid, unexplainable things. They're kids. And sometimes they're unpredictable. They're irrational. Sometimes they do things that don't make sense – like string a rope around a monkey mutt's neck and hang it from a doorway."

Percival cringed. "Touché. But at least I knew how to stay put." He had spent almost his whole Games in the basement of the opera house, killing anything – and any_one _– that ventured into his lair. The audience had seemed to think that was entertaining enough. So why did tributes always think they had to be constantly on the move in order to hold the audience's attention?

_They're kids._

No. No, that wasn't quite right. They _were _kids. A few days ago, they had been kids. Now they were tributes. And tributes couldn't afford to make stupid, careless mistakes – not too many of them, at least. Whatever Aleron's reason was for striking out on his own, the fact remained that he'd been terribly lucky so far. And that luck wouldn't hold forever.

But maybe it would last a little longer.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

"I'm sorry; I just didn't think I should wait any longer."

Myrah yawned as Jediah kept apologizing. "I didn't want to wake everyone, but I wasn't sure what else to do. I thought he was coming back. I thought he would only be a few minutes. But it's been – I don't even know – maybe twenty minutes. I thought he would be back by now. But there haven't been any cannons – not since that last one – so he's still alive. And I didn't hear a scream or anything, but I'm not sure if I would over the rain, and—"

Myrah tuned out the rest as Adelia did her best to calm her district partner. By now, all five of them were awake. Five. Aleron was gone – that much was clear from Jediah's ramblings. Where he had gone – and why – wasn't quite as clear.

"Why would he just leave?" Evander asked quietly.

The question didn't seem to be directed at anyone in particular, but Adelia answered, anyway. "He probably didn't mean to. He probably just went a little too far and got turned around. The best thing we can do is stay where we are, and he'll find his way back eventually. If we split up and go looking for him – especially in the dark – we'll just get lost ourselves. If he's not back by morning, then we can look for him."

One by one, the others agreed – a little too easily, Myrah thought. Aside from Jediah, no one seemed particularly worried that Aleron had simply left. And was Jediah really worried about Aleron, or was he just concerned that the others might think he wasn't doing his job if he let someone simply slip out in the middle of the night?

"Couldn't we call for him?" Myrah suggested. "If he's nearby, he might hear us."

"And if other tributes are nearby, _they _might hear us," Nadine pointed out.

"There are five of us. It's not like they're going to attack us."

"They might if they're armed. We're not," Adelia reminded her. "All it would take is one bow and arrow, or a few throwing knives – they wouldn't have to get anywhere near us."

Myrah shook her head. "I didn't see any bows and arrows." She hadn't seen any weapons at all.

"Doesn't mean the sponsors couldn't send something," Jediah offered.

Myrah stared. "What's the matter with all of you? Don't you _want _to find him?" She turned to Evander. "He's your district partner! Aren't you even a little bit worried about what might happen to him?"

Evander shook his head. "Of course I am. But there's really not anything we can do about it until morning. If he got turned around somewhere, hopefully he'll have the sense to stay there for the night, and, in the morning, we'll all find each other."

"_If _he got turned around somewhere," Myrah repeated. "What if he didn't? What if he just … left?"

"Then he's probably too far away by now to hear us even if we do start calling," Adelia reasoned. "If he doesn't want to come back, no amount of shouting is going to change his mind. Get some sleep. I'll take the next watch. We'll get this sorted out in the morning."

Reluctantly, Myrah lay down again. What if she had been the one to go missing instead of Aleron? Would they be trying any harder to find her? Would anyone care? Myrah closed her eyes.

But she already knew she wouldn't be able to sleep.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

Sooner or later, they would have to sleep.

Zach squinted through the rain as the lightning flashed again. So far, he'd managed to keep the pair from Twelve in sight. His plan had been to wait for them to stop – maybe even to go to sleep – before attacking. But, so far, they had shown no signs of stopping, or even slowing down. The only concession they had made to the darkness was to move a little farther inland, avoiding the slippery rocks at the water's edge. Other than that, the pair seemed comfortable in the dark, helping each other along, quick to rush to each other's aid when one or the other stumbled.

Zach wished he had someone to help him.

He was still farther inland – right at the edge of the jungle – so he had to watch out for trees. Several low-hanging branches had already swiped his face in the dark, and he was probably lucky he hadn't run into any larger ones. But he didn't dare move farther away from the trees. Then they might see him.

If they hadn't already, that was. What if the reason they didn't want to stop was because they knew they were being followed? What if they were thinking the same thing he was? What if they had figured out that he was alone, and that if he stopped to rest – or to sleep – he would be an easy target?

He couldn't afford to stop any more than they could.

There was always another option, of course. He could turn back. Give up the chase. He had no reason to believe they would come after him. The safest thing to do would be to leave them alone, find some other prey. Find someone who wouldn't be expecting an attack. That would be the safe thing.

The safe thing. Running from the bloodbath had been the safe thing. Leaving Mavina to die instead of trying to fight off Inviticus had been the safe thing. He had thought following District Twelve would be the safe thing, figured they would be easy to pick off.

He hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected them to simply keep going. Not in this weather. Not in the dark. They didn't have any training, after all. He did. Didn't that mean they were supposed to tire first?

But there were two of them.

It always came back to that, it seemed. With two of them, one could be encouraging the other to keep going, urging them on when they would rather stop to rest. Instead, he had only the pounding rain, the wind, the cold – all telling him that it would be so much easier to stop. To simply let them go.

Maybe he should. He could always catch them later. It wasn't as if they could go that far. The arena wasn't _that _big. And the Gamemakers could always herd them together.

The Gamemakers. The Capitol. The audience. The thought of them made Zach reconsider, even as he was beginning to slow his pace. What would the audience think if he simply let these two go? What would Camden think? It had been almost a whole day, and, so far, he had nothing to show for it. He couldn't just stop. Couldn't just let them escape. Zach gritted his teeth and picked up his pace again. He had to keep going.

Just a little longer.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

Just a little longer.

Delvin crouched as low as he could, watching as the three Careers passed right by him. They weren't looking for anyone – not yet. They hadn't expected anyone to stay this close to the cornucopia. The three of them had gathered some rocks, and the girl from Four had found a large branch to use as a club. So they hadn't found anything useful in the hovercraft.

But he would. He was sure of it. He just needed a chance.

Now he had one. And, most likely, he wouldn't get a better one. They had left someone to guard the hovercraft, but only one. And chances were good that whoever it was didn't have any better weapons than they did. Delvin slipped a few of the rocks into his pockets. He had as good a chance as whoever was in that hovercraft. Maybe better, with the element of surprise on his side. He just had to use it.

Lightning flashed again, revealing that the other three were already out of sight along the beach. Wherever they were going, they were in a hurry. Hopefully, that meant they wouldn't be coming back anytime soon. Which left him only one Career to deal with.

Just one.

Slowly, Delvin crept closer to the hovercraft. Hoping that whoever was on guard was standing by the door. Maybe with their back turned. Maybe starting to doze off now that their allies were gone.

"Well, hello there."

_Shit._

So much for the element of surprise. For a moment, Delvin considered turning back. Running. But that wasn't what he had come here for. Quickly, he lunged forward in the dark. The Career sidestepped his blow, and Delvin tumbled forward into the hovercraft. He was on his feet again in an instant. He swung again with one of his rocks, then jabbed with his fist. Each time, the other boy simply stepped away from his blows. Delvin gritted his teeth. Was the boy simply toying with him? Didn't he _want _to fight?

Finally, the other boy swung, his punch landing squarely on Delvin's jaw. The second blow came low, swiping Delvin's legs out from under him. But Delvin grabbed at the other boy as he fell, dragging the Career to the ground with him. For a moment, they tumbled, rolling over each other, but the other boy ended up on top, slamming Delvin's wrist against the floor. The rock slipped from his grasp. Soon, it was in the other boy's hand. Delvin braced himself for the blow he knew was coming.

"Had enough?"

Delvin stared, confused. "What?"

"I asked if you've had enough? That wasn't a bad performance; you can certainly take a punch. What are you doing here?"

"I thought it was obvious."

"You're here looking for something, probably – but not a fight. What did you think you were going to find?" The other boy eyed him curiously. "You're one of Septimus' group. Delvin, isn't it?"

Delvin hesitated. But admitting it didn't really put him at a disadvantage, and anything that kept the other boy talking instead of striking was a good thing. "Yeah."

"I take it he's not around."

"Obviously."

"Interested in joining us, instead?"

"What?"

The other boy shrugged. "Well, it's either that or I kill you right here. But, all in all, I'd rather not. Someone brave enough to come in here and try to raid the cornucopia all on their own – that takes guts. We could help each other. But if you'd rather…" He raised Delvin's rock.

"Wait," Delvin gasped, and the boy lowered the rock. "I … I guess I accept."

The boy smiled, got to his feet, and offered Delvin a hand up. "Smart move. I'm Jarlan. The three I'm guessing you just saw leave are Imalia, Indira, and Shale. They'll be back sooner or later."

Delvin eyed the door. Did he want to be here when they got back? Maybe he could still outrun the other boy. Maybe he could get away. But that would probably just make him their next target. And, without allies of his own, he couldn't afford that. Finally, he turned back to the other boy and smiled.

"I'm looking forward to meeting them."

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She wasn't looking forward to this.

Indira clutched her rock tightly as she and Shale followed Imalia along the beach. They had both known this was coming. If they were going to be allies with a pair of Careers, eventually, they would have to start acting like Careers. They would have to prove they deserved to be here.

Lightning flashed again. Indira glanced at Shale, who nodded reassuringly. She nodded back. This had been her idea, after all. She had been the one to ask Jarlan if the offer still stood. Shale had backed her up then.

So she would back him up now. She hadn't wanted to go hunting in the dark and the rain. But if he had sided with Imalia, he must have had a reason.

She would just have to trust that it was a good one.

It had to be, if he had agreed to hunting in this weather. In the dark. They had only been walking for half an hour or so, but their boots were already full of water. And they had seen no sign of anyone. Any footprints that might have been left on the beach after the bloodbath had long since been washed away, and, in any case, it was far too dark to follow anything.

Anything except Imalia's instincts. She hadn't slowed her pace since they'd left the hovercraft. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.

Or maybe she just wanted everyone to think she did.

Indira shook her head. For all their training, Jarlan and Imalia had been as surprised as everyone else by what the Gamemakers had done. They clearly hadn't expected to be separated from their allies any more than she and Shale had expected to be separated from Beckett. Watching the Games, Careers had always seemed so certain, so powerful, so sure of themselves.

How much of it was an act?

But what they were doing now wasn't an act. They were out hunting. And if they came across another tribute – if they found and killed someone else – that wouldn't be an act. It would be real.

Indira held her rock tighter. Maybe this _was _the best time to go hunting. If they found any tributes, maybe they would be asleep. Killing them in their sleep – that would be more merciful, wouldn't it? After all, if they were going to die – and they would have to, eventually – there were worse ways to go. At least she could make sure that it was quick. Painless. That was the best anyone could ask for in the Games.

On they trudged, occasionally stopping to empty their boots. Into the jungle. Back out again. A little farther along the shore. Still, they found nothing. Lightning flashed, but the sky was starting to get a little lighter. She could see a little even without the flashes.

Suddenly, Shale stopped. "What's that?"

Imalia and Indira slowed, trying to look where he was pointing. "What?"

As if on cue, another flash of lightning revealed what he was looking at. Some sort of cabin, a little ways inland. Imalia smiled a little. "I'd say it looks like a good hiding place."

Imalia headed straight for the cabin, leaving Indira and Shale no choice but to follow. As they crossed the tree line, Indira thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Something moving.

Probably just a branch. Probably just the wind. If there were any tributes nearby, they would be in the cabin, not out in the rain. Indira braced herself as she and Shale followed Imalia to the entrance of the cabin. Another clap of thunder, another flash of lightning, and someone inside the cabin screamed. Imalia took another step towards the door. "Indira, you guard the door. Shale, stay back." She stepped inside.

"I've got this."

* * *

**Elani Ingram, 14  
****District Eleven**

"I've got this."

Elani barely heard the words. She was still registering the words that had come before. _Shale, stay back. _Shale. Shale had found them. Shale and his allies had found them.

Shale and his allies had come to kill them.

Them. Elani glanced around frantically, clutching her knife. Pan huddled close behind her, shaking. But Philus. Where was Philus? He had been on watch. He was supposed to alert them if someone was coming. Instead, the girl had simply walked in just as a clap of thunder had woken her and Pan.

Elani's mind raced. Was Philus dead? Had she killed him? No. No, there hadn't been a cannon. She would have heard it.

So he was still alive.

Another flash of lightning lit the room as the girl stepped forward. But the flash was enough to reveal Shale, standing just behind the doorway. Pan raced forward, panicked. "Shale! Help!"

But he never made it to the door. The girl's club struck his head with a terrible crack. There was no cannon – not yet – but Pan crumpled to the ground, helpless. Elani wanted to move. To run. To help him up. But she was frozen as the girl from Four stepped forward and struck his head with her club a second time.

A second time was all it took. The cannon sounded. Elani took a step back, but she couldn't keep backing up forever. Soon, her hand brushed the back wall of the cabin. Lightning flashed. The door. She could run for the door. Maybe Shale would…

No. Running hadn't helped Pan. Elani gripped her knife, her hands shaking. Tears came to her eyes, because, in that moment, she knew. No one was going to save her. There was no way out.

Suddenly, it almost seemed funny.

Elani felt a smile creep over her face. As the other girl charged, Elani let out a laugh. A good, long laugh as she sprang forward. The other girl swung high. Elani dove low. The girl dodged, but Elani thought she caught the girl's leg with her knife.

It felt good. Fighting. Not running. Not hiding. If she was going to die, she wasn't going to die huddled in a corner, begging for her life. She was going to fight for every second.

And it felt good.

The feeling didn't last. As Elani scrambled to her feet, the club caught the side of her head. Before she could strike back, a blow to the knees knocked her to the ground. Something struck her hand, and the knife slipped from her grasp. "Please," she gasped as the other girl snatched up the knife.

But she wasn't pleading for her life. And maybe that was what surprised her the most. In that moment – that brief, beautiful moment – she wasn't afraid. She was going to die. No amount of pleading was going to change that. So she repeated the word again, but this time added the second part. "Please make it quick."

The girl hesitated. But only for a moment. The blade came down. Sliced across her throat. But she could barely feel the pain.

She even smiled a little as the cannon sounded.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

The girl was still smiling.

Imalia stood up. Took a step back. Then another. Cut a few strips of fabric from the bottom of her pant leg and bandaged the cut the side of her calf. The wound wasn't bad. Wasn't deep. That wasn't the worst part.

The smile was the worst part.

"Are you all right?" The voice came from the doorway. Indira. Imalia nodded. But she didn't look up. Couldn't look up.

She couldn't look at Shale.

Just then, there was a pinging noise, and something landed by the door. A parachute. Something from the sponsors. A gift.

A gift for killing two little children.

_Stop it. _Imalia clenched her teeth and forced herself to look. At the package. At Indira. And then at Shale. Whether it was growing lighter or whether her eyes were simply adjusting to the dark, Imalia wasn't sure. But she could see him. Clearly.

She almost wished he was crying. Or yelling at her. Cursing her. Something. Anything. But his expression was blank. Emotionless. Carefully guarded. He knew as well as any of them that he was being watched. That he would be judged based on his reaction. He couldn't afford to seem weak. Soft. Sympathetic.

And neither could she.

Imalia bent down to retrieve the package. She had no doubt it was for her. And, sure enough, the cloth that wrapped the gift was embroidered with a fluorescent "4." And since Jarlan wasn't here…

Imalia fought back a surge of anger. Jarlan should have been there. It should have been him, not Shale and Indira, standing at the door. Not because she had needed help. The two younger tributes wouldn't have stood a chance even if she had been alone. But it should have been the two of them. Together. Representing District Four.

But Indira and Shale had done what was necessary – even if that meant simply standing back and letting her fight. And she was surprised to realize she had never doubted that they would. She hadn't been worried that they might back out, step down, let the tributes escape. Even Shale didn't seem to have thought about stepping in to save his district partners.

Slowly, Imalia unwrapped the package. It was large, and heavy. Some sort of weapon. The fabric fell away, revealing a crowbar. Imalia smiled. Not because she would have chosen it as a weapon, but because it was _something_. And the fact that _anyone _was sponsoring District Four after the fiasco during the interviews was a step in the right direction.

"Okay," she said at last, gathering up the fabric from the package. "They had a knife, so there might be some other supplies. We should check the cupboards for anything else that might be useful. There's a lantern on the table; let's see if there are any matches. And we should move the bodies outside so the hovercraft can collect them." She might have been imagining things, but she thought she saw Shale's expression darken ever so slightly at the mention of the bodies. Imalia took a step closer. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Shale answered immediately. Automatically. That wasn't good enough. Imalia handed him the knife she had taken from his district partner.

"How about now?"

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

It was a test.

Shale took the knife, his gaze never leaving Imalia's. She was testing him. Testing his loyalty. Was he going to be a good Career ally, or was he going to avenge his district partners? She was giving him the chance to act. The chance for a fair fight. If he was going to take it, it had to be now.

But she held all the cards now. The sponsors were on her side; they had just proven that. She hadn't slaughtered two innocent tributes in their sleep. She had killed them in a fair fight. Pan had been trying to run, but Elani had attacked her first. She had done everything by the book. Made all the right moves.

So why did it feel wrong?

They would never have survived, anyway. _Could _never have survived, if he wanted to go home. They'd had to die. And at least she had made it quick. She could have prolonged their suffering. She could have made him watch while she tortured his district partners. She could have insisted that _he _be the one to kill them. _That _would have been a test. _Then _there would have been a choice.

Instead, she had told him to stay back. To stay out of the fight. And now there was no choice. No choice at all. Killing her wouldn't change what had happened. Elani and Pan were dead. And, sooner or later, they would have had to die, anyway. Maybe it was better that it happened now. That they'd apparently had one last night in relative comfort before…

Before his ally had killed them. Before he had stood by and watched them die. But what choice had he had? What choice did he have now? "No," he said at last. "It's not a problem. I'll bring them outside." He tucked the knife in his pocket.

The bodies were light. He could probably have carried them both at once, but, instead, he took his time. Pan was closer to the door, so Shale lifted him first. Laid him under one of the trees outside. Then he returned for Elani, and laid her beside him. It was only then that he fully realized what he must have noticed before:

One of them was missing.

There should have been three. They had always been together. They had barely left each other's side since the reaping. During the train rides, the chariot rides, training – it had always been the three of them.

So where was the other one?

Philus. Not 'the other one.' Philus. Maybe he was still nearby. Even if he had seen them coming and run, he couldn't be far away. Shale stood up and took a step back from the bodies of his younger district partners. That much, at least, he could do for them. He could remain silent. Sooner or later, Philus would join them, but it didn't have to be tonight. And it didn't have to be at the hands of his allies.

Yes. Yes, he could do that. He could let Philus go. Surely even the Capitol couldn't fault him for that. Shale turned and headed back inside the cabin as the hovercraft descended.

It was over.

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

It was over.

Philus watched from a distance as the hovercraft descended, retrieved the bodies, then disappeared again into the pouring rain. He couldn't see the bodies, but he knew. He had known the moment he had seen the three Careers approaching.

Everyone in the cabin was dead.

Philus turned and kept running. It was just luck, really, that he had seen them coming. He hadn't been able to sleep, so he had volunteered to keep watch. But even that had made him restless, so he had ventured outside the cabin. He hadn't meant to go far. He had just wanted to look out at the ocean.

But he had seen them, instead.

He could have run back to the cabin. Could have tried to wake the others. Maybe they could have made it out before the Careers got there. But then what? There was no way they could have made it out without being noticed. So what would have stopped the Careers from chasing down all three of them?

Instead, only two of them were dead.

Philus brushed the tears from his eyes, trying desperately to keep from sobbing. He had only thought it through afterwards. In that moment, seeing the Careers, he hadn't really thought about the options. He hadn't even thought of going back to warn the others. He had been too afraid to think. He had simply run.

And now his allies were dead.

The water sloshed in Philus' boots as he slowed to a fast walk, trying to breathe. Trying not to think. Trying not to picture what must have happened. Had they screamed? Had they begged for mercy? For once, he was glad he couldn't have heard them if they had. He didn't want to hear that.

He didn't want to imagine it.

Elani had a knife. Maybe she had escaped. Maybe she had even managed to kill one of them. How many cannons had there been? He had felt the vibrations in the air, but, so far, he hadn't been able to tell the difference between a cannon and thunder. He had been relying on Elani and Pan to keep him up to date on how many tributes were dead.

And now they were gone. He was on his own. Finally, Philus collapsed next to a tree along the shore, sobbing. What was he supposed to do now? They had been relying on each other – the three of them. They hadn't left each other's side since the train rides.

Until now. He had left them. He had left them to die. And, if they had somehow managed to survive, they would never forgive him. But he could understand that. Because he already knew he would never forgive himself.

Maybe he should have stayed and died with them.

Philus lay down, exhausted, almost wishing the Careers _would _find him. How long would he last on his own? He had no weapons. No food. No supplies. And no allies. Maybe it would be better to get it over with. Maybe Elani and Pan were the lucky ones.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

**India Telle, 17  
****District Three**

Her eyes shot open as the cannon sounded.

India sat up, startled, just in time for the second cannon. The thunder had woken her several times during the night, fooling her into thinking that maybe a cannon had sounded. But these ones were real. Someone had died.

_Two _someones, by the sound of it. India rubbed her eyes. It felt like she had barely slept at all. Every time she started to drift off, something had woken her again. A noise. The rain. Even her own thoughts.

India stood up slowly and put her boots back on. If she couldn't sleep, then she might as well keep moving. The sky was starting to get a little brighter. Almost dawn.

The second day of the Games.

India shook her head, staring out at the ocean. A whole day, and what did she have to show for it? She had made a kill, yes, but it had earned her nothing. She still had no food. No supplies. No weapons except the rocks she had found. She had assumed that if she made an impression, the sponsors would send her something. That was how the Games worked, wasn't it?

It wasn't as if there had been _that _many deaths, either. Counting the two cannons that had just sounded, there had been ten. And she had been responsible for one.

What did she have to do to get their attention?

Maybe it had been the _way _she had killed. It had been bloody, yes, but it had been relatively quick. Painless. Maybe that wasn't what the audience wanted, especially this year. Maybe they wanted more blood. More pain. More fear.

So that was what she would give them.

India gripped a rock in her hand as she headed for the jungle. That was where most of the tributes had gone. So that was where she would find what she needed.

That was where she would find her next victim.

Victim. No, she didn't like the sound of that. It made her sound cruel. Harsh. And she didn't want to be cruel. She just wanted to be interesting. She just wanted to be worthy of their attention.

And if she had to be cruel to get it, then that was their fault.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

It wasn't her fault.

Sariya said nothing as Thane woke her for the next watch. He was silent, too. He blamed her, she knew. Blamed her for losing the girl they had been chasing. If she hadn't been so clumsy – if she hadn't tripped – then they might have caught her. There might have been eleven cannons so far instead of ten. Which didn't seem like much, maybe, but every cannon brought her that much closer to home.

It wasn't as if she had _meant _to trip. The boots they had been given simply weren't made for running. It was a wonder more of the tributes weren't tripping over themselves. Maybe they _were_. She had just happened to trip at the wrong time. It wasn't her fault.

In fact, if it was anyone's fault, it was Thane's. He could have kept running instead of waiting for her. He could have caught the girl. Given her time to catch up. They could still have killed her.

Sariya shook her head as Thane lay down to sleep. For all she knew, he hadn't even _wanted _to catch her. For all she knew, he would have stopped and given up the chase, anyway. She had simply given him an excuse. If it hadn't been that, it would have been something else. Why had he even agreed to join this alliance in the first place?

Sariya sighed. Who was she kidding? Why had _either _of them agreed to join this alliance? Why had Septimus even asked them? It was obvious they weren't killers. Maybe they should have stuck with just the three of them. Just them and Delvin…

Delvin. Sariya leaned back against a tree. She had been trying not to think about that. About the fact that he was still out there somewhere. Alone. Alive, as far as they knew – as long as none of the three cannons since the anthem had been his. They all knew it, but no one had suggested that they try to find him.

But where were they supposed to look? The replacement tributes could very well be on the other side of the island completely. In fact, for all they knew, they were in a completely different arena. Some of the faces in the sky had belonged to tributes from the other group – one of the boys from Six, one of the girls from Seven. But that didn't give them any hint about _where _the other tributes were. Looking for Delvin was probably pointless.

Probably.

Sariya shook the thought from her head. If their positions were reversed, would Delvin be looking for her? Would any of them? And would she really expect them to? No. No, they had all been clear on the unspoken terms of their alliance. They would help each other – maybe even protect each other – but, when it came down to it, they weren't the sort of allies who would lay down their lives for each other. Delvin had gotten unlucky, and that was a shame, but there were still five of them. And they weren't about to risk five of them to try to save one.

It was simple math.

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18  
****District One**

"It's simple math."

Inviticus rolled his eyes as Jaime kept rambling. He hadn't asked for a lecture. He had simply suggested that they should go after Septimus' group. That they should focus on taking out their strongest opponents first. And, whether he liked acknowledging it or not, with the two tributes from Four gone, Septimus and Liana's group was probably their only real competition in the area.

"Five against three," Jaime continued. "And there's no way they wouldn't see us coming. Besides, it's not like we even know where they are. All we have is some idea that they probably went into the jungle. It's a big jungle; they could be anywhere by now."

Inviticus sighed. "Fine, fine. So where do _you _suggest we go?"

Jaime shook her head. "I don't see any reason for the plan to change. We stay close to the beach, look for food and look for tributes at the same time – two birds with one stone."

"And we should listen to you because your plans have worked so well so far," Inviticus offered sarcastically. "How did allying with District Four work out for you two?"

"Well, if you're going to have _that _attitude, maybe we should have just let Auster kill you," Jaime retorted.

"As if he could have. I saw him coming a mile away." He hadn't, though. That was the frightening part. He had expected District Four to betray them, of course. But not so soon. He had never imagined that Auster would come after him in the bloodbath. If Jaime hadn't stepped in…

But he couldn't admit that. Not to her. Not in front of the cameras. Not if he wanted to impress the audience. The Capitol. District One. His mentors. They were all counting on him. He couldn't afford to appear weak.

Which meant they had to leave. They couldn't waste any more time sitting around in an empty hovercraft. But they also couldn't afford to just go walking along the beach looking for clams and fish and just _hoping _that they stumbled across a tribute or two. They needed a plan for finding them.

Especially since there were only three of them. A larger pack could split up. Cover more ground. A larger pack with real weapons – not screwdrivers, wrenches, and pocketknives – would make short work of the tributes in this arena.

But they weren't a larger pack. And they didn't have better weapons. And they weren't likely to anytime soon – not unless they did something to impress the sponsors.

He just wished he knew what.

Inviticus sighed. Until they came up with something better, Jaime's plan would have to do. "Fine, then," he grumbled. "The shore it is." He gathered up his screwdrivers, trying to imagine stabbing a tribute or two in the eye. That made him feel a little better.

"All right, then," Jaime agreed. "Let's get going."

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

They had to keep going.

Barry glanced towards the tree line as the lightning flashed again. Nothing but trees. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. A couple times, he had seen something. A bit of movement in the trees.

He had tried to tell himself that it was probably nothing. Maybe a mutt. Maybe just the wind and the rain rustling the branches.

But what if it wasn't?

"Barry, wait!" Eleanor called over the rain. Barry halted once more, waiting for her to catch up, trying to mask his annoyance for the sponsors' sake. They had to look like a team. They had to act like a team. Brennan had told them from the start that he thought their alliance was a good idea.

So why did it feel like he was pulling all the weight?

Barry shifted uneasily as Eleanor finally caught up to him. Again. Barry clenched his teeth. It should have been obvious to him during training just how unprepared she was. But he had been so eager to have an ally – any ally – that he had overlooked the fact that she probably hadn't run more than a block or two in her life. She was breathing hard, bent over in the rain as she struggled to catch her breath. "Barry, don't you think we should stop?"

Barry hesitated. He was tired, too, of course. His legs were beginning to ache. His heart was pounding – but whether from exertion or from fright, he wasn't sure. He shook his head. "I told you – we need to keep moving in case—"

"—In case someone's following us," Eleanor finished, winded. "Barry, have you seen _anyone _all night? We're alone out here. I'm not saying we should _stay _here forever. But couldn't we rest for an hour or two? Get our strength back?"

He almost said yes. His legs, his arms, his whole body ached, begging him to stop. Just for a little while. But part of him knew – knew that 'a little while' would likely turn into ... well, more than that. Could they afford to stop? Maybe. Maybe the shape in the trees _was _his imagination. Maybe.

But maybe not.

Barry shook his head stubbornly. "You stay here and rest if you want to. I'm going to keep moving."

Silence for a moment. "Okay. I'll catch up."

Barry blinked. That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He'd hoped that his words would goad her into continuing, that she wouldn't want to be shown up by her younger district partner. He hadn't really meant to suggest that they split up. But, apparently, she was too tired to care about what the sponsors might think if she couldn't keep up the pace.

Maybe just for a little while.

Barry sighed. "Okay. You win. We'll rest. But only for a little while. Then we need to keep moving."

Eleanor sank down immediately onto one of the rocks. "Thank you."

Barry nodded. "We've got to stick together, right?"

"Right." She stretched a little. "Could you wake me in … five minutes or so?"

Barry clenched his teeth. When he'd said 'rest,' he hadn't meant 'sleep.' "Fine," he agreed reluctantly. "But only five minutes. Then we need to keep moving."

He just hoped he had done the right thing.

* * *

**Tamsin Lane  
****District Eleven Mentor**

"Why didn't he do something?"

Tamsin slid into a seat next to Elijah. "Like what?" she asked. "Like take on his Career ally with nothing more than a stick to save his district partners who were going to die, anyway? Or maybe you meant afterwards, when she offered him a knife. Are you asking why he didn't take her challenge to fight for a few tributes who were already dead?"

"I … I don't know," Elijah admitted. "I just expected … something."

"That's because you're sentimental. You're the guy who left his allies in the middle of the night because you were worried you weren't pulling your weight. You're the guy who suggested I tell the whole Capitol I was in love with Marion because it would win me points with the sponsors. You're the guy who told a tribute last year to make his own choice about whether to join the rebels because it should be his decision. You're sweet, Eli, but sometimes I wonder how you made it out of your Games alive."

"But Shale—"

"Isn't an idiot. And that's why he's still alive. What do you think would have happened if he'd decided to take on Imalia? What do you _really _think would have happened?"

"Maybe if Indira—"

"No. They make a good team, but don't think for a moment that Indira would fall on her sword for him – especially if the fight was just to avenge two tributes who were _already dead_. She's not an idiot. And neither is he."

"I just…" Elijah trailed off.

Tamsin nodded to Eldred, who poured a pair of drinks. Tamsin handed one to Elijah. "Here. Tell you what. Take this and drink until it feels like he did the right thing. I'll do the same for Philus. Whoever feels better about themselves first gets to mentor an extra tribute or two next year, just to even things out."

Elijah finally smiled a little. "An extra or two?"

Tamsin shrugged. "Yeah. One if Shale somehow makes it out alive and gets to share with us. Two if he doesn't. The other person only mentors one. Deal?"

"Or if Philus makes it out alive," Elijah pointed out.

Tamsin shook her head. "Eli, if a miracle happens and Philus somehow makes it out of that arena alive, he'll be in no condition to mentor. Even forgetting the fact that he wouldn't be able to actually _talk _to the people he'd be mentoring, that guilt he already has would eat him alive. Look at Kit. Look at Avery. He'd be in the same boat. He'd probably be better off if the Careers found him right now and put him out of his misery."

Elijah couldn't hide a look of surprise. "He's your tribute."

"And I'll keep doing my job, but, look, I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. So—" She raised her glass again. "Deal?"

Elijah nodded. "Deal."

* * *

"_I didn't know him, but I remember his courage. And I know he will be missed."_


	36. Chain of Events

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "favorite district" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which alliances are your favorites. Because of the somewhat shifting nature of alliances, some tributes are included more than once in different combinations of groups. Read the chapter first, though, because some of that shifting is going on here.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Chain of Events**

* * *

**Kalypso Wayland  
****District Four Mentor**

"At least one of our tributes knows what she's doing."

Kalypso smiled, satisfied, as Imalia, Indira, and Shale searched the cabin for anything useful. They didn't manage to find anything the younger tributes from Eleven hadn't, but what they did have would be enough for now. A knife, a crowbar, a sack of potatoes, a lantern.

And, more importantly, two kills.

Not two particularly impressive kills, perhaps. The younger tributes had never really posed a threat. But a kill – _any _kill – meant one less tribute in the Games. And that brought District Four one step closer to victory.

Meanwhile, Jarlan seemed to be taking a few steps backwards, a fact that certainly wasn't lost on his mentor. Bierce drummed his fingers on the table, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for Jarlan's actions. "Maybe he figures Delvin has some sort of expertise that would be useful. District Six – transportation. Maybe he can figure out how to fly the hovercraft."

Kalypso rolled her eyes. "Ah, yes. Because he's from District Six, he must be a technological genius. That's definitely how it works. And, in any case, do you think the Gamemakers would leave them a fully functioning hovercraft? I'm sure they've done something to disable it."

Bierce shrugged. "And there's no way the Gamemakers would let tributes ride around on giant eagles, either." He nodded towards Harakuise and Camden.

"Point taken," Kalypso conceded. But Delvin hadn't exactly seemed interested in the possibility of flying the hovercraft. Mostly, he seemed grateful to be alive. Grateful that Jarlan hadn't killed him when he'd had the chance.

When he'd had the chance. He'd had the opportunity to rid their alliance of a considerable opponent. Instead, Jarlan was now the only living tribute from District Four without a kill to his name. Kalypso shook her head. "It just reminds me a bit too much of last year. Making allies instead of killing opponents. The whole 'join us or die' option. He has to know the audience will make a connection."

"He's no rebel."

"You know that. And I know that. But what about the audience? What are they going to think? Hell, what's _Imalia _going to think when they get back and find they've got another ally instead of a corpse?"

"She didn't seem to have any issue with Indira and Shale," Bierce pointed out. "What's the difference?"

Kalypso hesitated. What _was _the difference? It wasn't as if it was the final eight or anything. There were still three dozen tributes left in the arena. Their pack could certainly use an extra member. Finally, she decided what the real problem was. "I don't trust him. Shale and Indira – they asked to be part of the group. Delvin only agreed because the other option was Jarlan killing him. What makes you think he won't turn on them the moment a better opportunity presents itself?"

Bierce shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure he would. So would any of us – that's why we're still sitting here, alive. But, for now, he doesn't really _have _any better options. His former allies are on the other side of the arena, and they're not exactly looking for him. And we just saw how well he does on his own. This alliance is as good for him as it is for them – if not better. And as long as that remains the case, he'll stay."

He was probably right. "I just hope they watch their backs." _Unlike Mavina and Auster_.

Bierce smiled. "They will. You trained Imalia well."

Kalypso nodded. Imalia had always been a promising student. When she'd volunteered a year early, Kalypso had admittedly had her doubts, figured that another year of training might have done her good. But with the training center gone … maybe it was better to take her chances now.

Maybe things would work out, after all.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

Maybe he had been imagining things, after all.

Barry stretched his arms as he sat down next to Eleanor. Five minutes, she had said. It had been at least ten. Maybe fifteen or twenty. And nothing had happened. No one had come. If someone _was _following them – if someone _did _want to attack – wouldn't it make sense to do it while one of them was asleep?

Barry yawned, stretching a little more. He had half a mind to wake Eleanor and ask _her _to watch for five minutes – or maybe ten – while _he _got a little sleep. He hadn't realized until they'd stopped just how tired he was, how sore his legs were from hours of scrambling over the rocky shore. And it wasn't as if they were going to find a better place to rest. The sky was growing lighter, so they would be able to see if anyone _did _decide to attack.

Maybe stopping hadn't been such a bad idea.

Not that he would ever admit that to Eleanor, of course – or to the cameras. It was bad enough that she had called his bluff, bad enough that she had known he wasn't serious about splitting up. Maybe she was a bit unprepared, but any company was better than going it alone. Especially so early in the Games.

Eventually, he would have to go it alone. One way or another, they would be separated. Either one of them would die, or they would eventually get to the point where they had to split up. Peacefully, he hoped. He couldn't imagine trying to kill Eleanor.

Then again, no one went into the Games _expecting _to kill their allies. If they did, no one would have allies in the first place. There was probably always that unspoken hope that circumstances would separate them before it came to that. But if not…

Barry shook the thought from his head. That was a long way away. It was only the second day of the Games – and very _early _on the second day, at that. There were still thirty-six tributes left.

Thirty-six. The same number of tributes as Brennan's year. Barry smiled a little. Maybe it wasn't much of an accomplishment, but it was something. Ten tributes gone, and both of them were still alive.

But the Games were still far from over.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Barry thought he saw something. Movement. Behind one of the rocks. Immediately, he shook Eleanor awake – but not quickly enough. Before either of them could fully react, a boy burst out from behind one of the larger boulders, rock in hand.

"Run!" Barry shouted, but he already knew that was useless. He was barely on his feet by the time the boy reached them. But that was more than he could say for Eleanor, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, dazed. The boy dove for his easier target first, striking Eleanor's head with his rock. Without thinking, Barry leapt onto the boy's back, but the older boy shook him off without much effort, throwing him backwards onto the rocks.

But that was enough to get the boy's attention. Abandoning Eleanor, he threw himself at Barry, flinging him down harder against the rocks. Barry could feel blood as his head struck the stones. The boy's hands closed around his neck.

Barry thrashed. No. No, he couldn't let it end like this. Not now. Not so soon. But the older boy's grip was tightening.

It wouldn't be long now.

* * *

**Zachary Travelle, 17  
****District Five**

It wouldn't be long now.

Zach squeezed harder. Tighter. What was taking so long? Why wouldn't the boy just _die_?

Suddenly, something struck the back of his head. Hard. Zach turned, startled, and, in his surprise, let go of the boy's throat. That was the opportunity the boy needed. As Zach turned to face his second attacker, the boy leapt at Zach, wrapping an arm around his neck.

This time, he didn't let go.

Panicked, Zach struggled to pry the boy's arm away with one hand while still keeping the girl at bay with the other. But the girl was quicker than she looked. With the rock in one hand – Zach's rock, still wet with her own blood – she ducked beneath Zach's reach, trying to circle around behind him.

Instinctively, Zach threw himself backwards, slamming the boy against the rocks. A cry of pain erupted from the boy as he finally loosened his grip. Zach rammed him against the rocks once more, and, this time, the boy let go. But, in that moment, the girl dove for Zach's legs. Too late, he tried to kick her away, but she had already gripped one of his legs. The extra weight threw him off-balance, and the two tumbled down in a heap.

Zach kicked at the girl until she let go, but, by then, it was too late. The boy was on his chest, a rock in his hand. Zach caught the boy's hand as the rock came down, but he couldn't stop both him and the girl. As he held the boy at bay, the girl's hands wrapped around his throat.

Quickly, Zach let go of the boy, clutching wildly at his throat in an attempt to free himself from the girl's grasp. But, even as he did, the rock struck him in the temple. For a moment, everything went fuzzy. Zach gasped, but the girl was squeezing. Harder. Harder.

_Not like this_.

The rock struck again, and Zach could taste blood. He kicked. Thrashed. But the girl's grip held firm, and the rock struck again.

Everything was getting blurry. Or maybe that was the rain. Filling his eyes, his mouth. Zach sputtered, trying to cough, but he couldn't get enough air. Everything seemed to be growing colder. Darker.

It wasn't fair.

Or maybe it was. He wasn't sure anymore. He had been trying to kill them. Why shouldn't he have expected them to do the same? And there were two of them. One of him. That was fair, wasn't it? Two lived; one died.

None of it made sense anymore.

Maybe it never had.

Far off in the distance, he thought he heard the sound of shouting. People – so many angry people. A mob, like the one that had taken Allison from him. Allison. For a moment, he thought he saw her again. Thought he heard her call his name.

But it was probably just the cannon.

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

Both of them breathed a sigh of relief as the cannon sounded.

Eleanor collapsed back onto the rocks, exhausted. Her head ached. Blood covered the rocks – hers, Barry's, Zach's. Barry was clutching his side. Her shoulder throbbed where the older boy had kicked her. But the pain almost felt good.

Because it meant she was still alive.

Eleanor grasped Barry's hand as the pair of them simply lay there, catching their breaths. "Thirty-five," Barry gasped, his voice a bit wheezy. Eleanor simply nodded back. Thirty-five tributes left.

And they were still alive.

Finally, the two of them sat up. "You were right," Eleanor admitted, wincing in pain as she clutched her shoulder. "We were being followed. I should have listened. If we hadn't stopped—"

Barry shook his head. "We would have had to stop eventually. If it hadn't been here, it would have been somewhere else. Sooner or later, he would have attacked. At least this way … this way, it's over with."

Over with. The other boy was dead. They had killed him.

Eleanor clenched her fists. Clearly, he'd had no qualms about killing them. Why should they feel any differently? It wasn't as if they'd _wanted _a fight. Wasn't as if they'd attacked _him_. He was going to kill them. It had been their lives or his.

But she still couldn't help a queasy feeling in her stomach as she looked at the body. He didn't look anywhere near as threatening now. He wasn't much older than her. Stronger, yes, but not as different, not as monstrous, as she would have thought.

He was just a boy.

Eleanor shook her head. A boy who would have killed her. Would have killed Barry. Had _tried _to kill them. Had almost succeeded. He didn't deserve their pity.

Did he?

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle pinging noise – quiet amid the rain, but unmistakable. Eleanor looked up, grinning. They had done it! Someone had decided to sponsor them!

The parachute was small, the package fitting easily in the palm of her hand. Eleanor turned it over. What could be inside? Her fingers fumbled with the package, the rain making it slippery, but, finally, she got it open. Inside was a single piece of paper, folded twice. Eleanor's hands were trembling as she opened the paper.

_What lies in the shadow of the statue?_

Eleanor stared at the paper, confused. She handed it to Barry, but he simply shook his head. "What statue?"

"No idea," Eleanor admitted. She glanced around, not quite sure what she was looking for. Maybe another parachute. A second clue. Some hint about what the message really meant.

Then she saw it – in the distance, along the beach. It _was _a statue – too far away to see clearly, but unmistakably different from the rocks they'd found so far. It was tall, shaped like a man. Or a woman. There was no way to tell – not without venturing closer.

Which was clearly what they were meant to do.

Slowly, the pair got to their feet. "All right," Eleanor nodded. "We get to the statue. We find whatever's in its shadow. Then we can rest. Deal?"

Barry nodded. "Deal." Eleanor smiled.

At least they had some idea where they were going.

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

He wished he knew where he was going.

Baylor brushed the water from the face of the compass and tried to hold it as flat as he could. He had been hoping that perhaps if he changed its position a little, it wouldn't lead him up the slope that now lay in front of him. But the needle never wavered. Whoever had sent it, they wanted him to climb.

"All right, then," Baylor muttered, tucking the compass in his pocket. "Let's go." He felt a bit silly talking to himself, but what harm did it do? Besides, if the Gamemakers hadn't wanted him to end up talking to himself, then they shouldn't have separated him from Melody.

Melody. The thought made Baylor climb a little faster. He had assumed from the start that the compass was leading him to her, and he had to keep hoping that was true. Hoping that she was still alive. She had been last night; her face hadn't appeared in the sky. But there had been four cannons since then…

Baylor shook his head. Four wasn't that many. Not really. Not when there had been forty-six of them at the start. Thirty-nine left after the anthem last night. Four cannons since then. What were the chances that one of them had been Melody's?

After all, none of them had been his. And if he could make it, so could she. If he could survive, if he could fight, if he could kill, then she could, too.

If he could kill. Baylor reached into his pocket, his hand closing around one of the stones he had tucked there for safekeeping. The extra weight was tiring, but he felt a little safer knowing that they were there. Knowing that, when it came down to it, he could do what had to be done.

He hadn't wanted to. He had never wanted to kill anyone. But there had been no avoiding it. He had done everything he could. He had tried to calm the girl down. He had even offered her an alliance. But she had refused. She had attacked him.

What was he supposed to do?

Baylor swallowed hard, blinking against the rain as he stopped to rest on the slope. As far as the Capitol was concerned, he had done _exactly _what he was supposed to do. He had fought. He had killed. Because that was what they were here for, after all.

And he had gotten his reward. If he hadn't killed Cordelia, the sponsors would never have sent him a gift. He wouldn't have even a slight chance of finding Melody again. All because, when his life was on the line, he'd been able to kill.

But what about when it wasn't?

Baylor started climbing again. He didn't want to think about that. Not yet. When he'd killed Cordelia, he had only been defending himself. He didn't want to think about doing what she had done – about attacking someone who hadn't done anything to him.

_One step at a time._

Baylor clenched his teeth. He had taken the first step. And, clearly, the audience was satisfied with that for now. But, eventually, it wouldn't be enough. Eventually, he would have to take the next step.

_People notice._

Baylor plunged forward into the rain, up the steep slope. People were watching. The audience was watching. He had their attention now. But if he wanted to keep it, he would have to prove that he was ready to take that next step. That he was willing to take an opportunity if it arose.

But was he?

* * *

**Nadine Olliston, 14  
****District Six**

Where was he?

Nadine glanced around in the rain, as if doing so would somehow make Aleron appear. The others were starting to wake up – those who had been able to fall asleep, at least. Even before Aleron had gone missing, she hadn't slept much. She was too wet. Too cold. Too hungry.

She was no stranger to hunger, of course. But even when her family had struggled to put food on the table, they'd always had a roof over their heads. The rain hadn't been particularly cold during the day, but overnight, it had turned colder. Things were starting to warm up again, but it would be easier to stay warm if they were dry.

But it was no use saying so. They all wanted to be dry, but, for now, they had no shelter. They would just have to keep going until they found something.

But not everyone wanted to leave. "Maybe we should stay a little longer," Evander suggested. "If we leave, and Aleron comes back here, he won't be able to find us."

"_If _he comes back here," Adelia pointed out. She didn't say the rest, but everyone knew what she meant. There had been three cannons since Aleron had gone missing. If one of them had been his…

Nadine swallowed hard. If one of them had been his, then there was no point in waiting around for him to come back. And if he was still alive, he'd had plenty of time to find them. The longer they stayed in one place, the better their chances that any tribute would find them – not just Aleron. And the longer they did nothing, the more likely the Gamemakers were to send mutts after them or drive tributes their way just to spice things up a bit.

But no one wanted to make the first move. No one wanted to be the one to point out that Aleron might very well be dead. That they might be waiting for nothing. That they had to think about what was best for all of them, not just their wayward ally who had wandered off for no apparent reason.

No one wanted to say that maybe they didn't need him. That maybe they were even better off without him.

But someone needed to do something.

Her mind made up, Nadine jumped to her feet, pointed downhill away from the cornucopia, and shouted. "Look! Do you see that?" Then, without another word of explanation, she took off.

The others sprang up and hurried to catch up, calling after her. "Wait! See what? What do you see?"

Nadine didn't answer. She simply ran faster. "Come on!" she called after a moment. "Hurry! We're almost there!"

She didn't see anything, of course. But they needed a push. A reason to start moving. And, after losing Aleron, they wouldn't simply let her run off. That was what she had been counting on, and, as Nadine glanced behind her, she could see it had paid off. Even Evander was following, his concern for Aleron overshadowed by his fear of losing someone else, too.

She just hoped there was something worth finding up ahead.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

She just hoped the creatures tasted better than they looked.

Elizabet sat down on a large rock next to Fallon, exhausted. After resting for the night, they had spent most of the morning searching for food. Their first attempt at making a fishing net had failed. So had the second. And the third. Just as they had been about to give up and venture into the jungle in search of food, Fallon had spotted some sort of small, shelled creature growing along some of the rocks. After collecting several pockets full of them, they were finally sitting down to eat.

Elizabet tried to pry one open, but the shells were too slippery in the rain. Finally, she simply shrugged, then slammed the shell against the rock. A few pieces broke off, and Elizabet slowly started to peel away the outside. Inside, the creature was a light brown, wet and slimy, a little smaller than her palm. Elizabet winced as she plucked the creature from the shell. Fallon had done the same, but was still waiting. Neither of them wanted to be the first to try it.

"On three?" Elizabet suggested, and Fallon nodded. Elizabet turned the creature over in her hand. "One. Two. Three." She stuffed it in her mouth.

Immediately, she had to fight the urge to spit it out. The creature was slimy. Smooth. And it tasted almost as bad as she'd imagined. But she forced herself to chew. To swallow. Because, for the moment, it was the only food they had. And they were in no position to be picky. Elizabet smiled a little, hoping to convince the sponsors that the little critter was delicious.

"Not bad," Fallon said at last, though she, too, was clearly faking enjoyment. "Almost like mushrooms."

Yes, that was about right. Wet, slimy mushrooms mixed with saltwater. But it was better than nothing. Elizabet opened another. Then another. By the fifth one, they didn't seem to taste quite so bad. And at least there were plenty of them; they weren't likely to go hungry anytime soon.

And they were still alive.

Elizabet smiled a little despite the slimy food. Morning must be nearly over by now. Morning on the second day of the Games. And she and Fallon were still alive. They had food. They had water. Neither of them was hurt. All in all, they were doing pretty well so far.

"We should keep going," Elizabet suggested once they had both eaten their fill. "We can collect more along the way; the rocks seem to be full of them up ahead. But we should keep putting distance between us and…"

She trailed off, but Fallon nodded anyway. They hadn't seen anyone following them, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone nearby. Any progress they made would be a good thing. One by one, Elizabet tossed the empty shells back into the ocean. "A big pile of shells might give them a trail to follow," she explained.

Fallon nodded and tossed away her shells, as well. "I wouldn't have thought of that."

Elizabet shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't have thought of eating these things. So I guess we're even." She clapped Fallon on the back. "Ready to go?"

Fallon nodded. "Ready."

* * *

**Calantha Harlyn, 16  
****District Ten**

She wasn't ready to get up.

Calantha rolled over sleepily, trying to find a more comfortable position. Some place on the ground that wasn't sopping wet. Some patch of dirt that hadn't already turned to mud. She just wanted a few minutes of sleep. Just ten. Maybe even five. But it was clear by now that she wasn't going to get it.

Slowly, Calantha sat up and leaned back against the nearest tree. Her clothes, her skin, her hair – it was all caked with mud. Calantha sighed. It wouldn't take long for the rain to wash it away.

Sleepily, she cupped her hands and drank a little rainwater. But the mud on her hands made the water dirty. Still, it was better than nothing. Slowly, she stood up. She knew she should go somewhere. Nothing good ever happened to tributes who stayed in one place too long. But where was she supposed to go?

Calantha rubbed her eyes. She wasn't even sure which way the cornucopia was – or which direction would lead her away from it. She had no desire to go back to the cornucopia, but she _certainly _didn't want to find herself back there by accident. She glanced up, looking for the sun. For some hint of which way she had come, which way she should go. But the sun was hidden. Her footprints, by now, had all been washed away.

Calantha closed her eyes, listening. Finally, she could hear something over the rain – the sound of waves crashing against the shore. She turned to face it, hesitant. She had been heading inland; she was pretty sure of that. But if she could find the shore – if she could get out of the jungle – then she might be able to get a better look around, get her bearings.

But would there be more tributes that way?

Slowly, she took a step towards the shore. Then another. Suddenly, she stopped. She had thought – for a moment – that she had seen something, in the trees off to her left. Calantha glanced around. If there was another tribute, there was probably only one. The Careers would have attacked by now. Domingo would show himself. So it was someone else.

Calantha's mind raced. Who else had run this way? Slowly, she reached down to pick up a nearby branch. But, even as she did, a girl sprang from behind the trees. Calantha screamed and tried to run, but the other girl was faster. A rock struck Calantha in the back as she ran, throwing her off-balance long enough for the other girl to tackle her. They both fell to the ground, the other girl on top. Calantha felt something strike the back of her head.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

**India Telle, 17  
****District Three**

There was no cannon.

India took a step back, eyeing the girl. Not dead – not yet. Just unconscious. She would be dead soon, of course. After India decided what sort of death would give the audience the best show.

She had to be careful, though. When the girl woke up, she might scream. And screams might attract the Careers. She wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not when she didn't even have a real weapon. Okay. So that was the first step: make sure the girl couldn't scream.

Cautiously, India approached the girl, removed one of her boots, and slipped off one of her socks. Then she opened the girl's mouth and stuffed the sock inside. Okay. That was a start. India sighed, eyeing the rock she'd hit the girl over the head with. "All right, then. If you want me to do something besides bash her head in with a rock, now's the time to say so."

As if in answer, a soft pinging filled the air. India glanced up, smirking, as a parachute floated down. Inside was a small knife – almost a scalpel – and a coil of thick, rough rope.

India clenched her teeth. It was clear what they wanted. They wanted her to show what she was capable of. To do something clever or creative – not to simply slit the girl's throat with the knife.

India turned the rope over in her hands. First things first. Quickly, efficiently, she tied the girl's hands and feet. Then she propped the girl's limp form up against the nearest tree and bound her in place. By that time, she was stirring. The girl started to thrash as India pulled the rope tighter. Her tied hands flailed, but India caught them, pulled them over her head, and used the last of the rope to bind them to the tree.

"All right, then," India said at last, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. "Where should we start?" The girl simply stared back, her eyes wide and frightened, struggling as much as she could against the ropes. India forced herself to look. The Capitol didn't want to see squeamishness. They didn't want to see a predator who shrank from her prey.

But, now that it came to it, she wanted nothing more than to simply stab the girl and run.

No. No, that was too easy. They hadn't sent her a weapon – a real weapon – so that she could make a clean, quick kill. If they'd wanted that, she could simply have strangled the girl as she lay unconscious, or smashed her head with a rock. That would have been simple. That would have been painless.

That would have been kind.

But she couldn't afford to be kind – not with the whole Capitol watching. They were waiting for her. India took a step forward, and the girl flinched away in terror. India gripped her scalpel. _Start with something small._ Casually – or, at least, she hoped she looked casual – she took a clump of the girl's hair and cut it off near the scalp. Then another. Then another. Soon, she looked just like one of the replacement tributes.

That helped – changing her appearance. It made her less human, somehow. Almost like an animal. And that made it a bit better – what she was about to do. India knelt down at the girl's side and forced herself to smile.

The sock only muffled the screams.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

The screams were muffled.

Domingo crouched lower behind a tree. The rain was pounding, but the screams were unmistakable. Someone was dying. Someone nearby. Someone…

Domingo clenched his fists. It could be anyone. He had no reason to care. Not really. It was the Hunger Games. Tributes died. That was how the Games worked.

But did they have to die so loudly?

Slowly, Domingo crept closer and closer to the screams. Maybe he didn't know who was screaming, but it might be someone he knew. It might be Calantha. It might even be Audra. Audra had let him go, spared his life when she'd had no reason to. If there was a chance he could save her now…

For once, Domingo was grateful for the rain; any noise he was making was almost certainly covered up. So was his gasp as he finally saw what was happening. Calantha sat tied to a tree, her hands bound over her head, her hair cut off and something stuffed in her mouth. Blood soaked through her jumpsuit from slices to her arms and legs. A girl knelt at her side, drawing the knife slowly across her stomach.

Domingo closed his eyes, trying to convince himself not to do anything stupid. Not to attack. The girl was armed. He had no weapon. And what would he be able to accomplish? Calantha was already as good as dead.

There was no point in him being dead, too.

Suddenly, Domingo heard another sound – a strange, almost metallic clicking. His eyes shot open in time to see a column of smoke, right behind him. Domingo ducked, but he wasn't the target. As he watched, the smoke swooped forward, grabbed hold of the other girl, and lifted her into the air. She screamed, but that did nothing to stop the smoke from slamming her down against the ground. Her body went limp.

But there still wasn't a cannon.

Immediately, Domingo rushed forward, grabbed the knife from the girl's hand, and gripped it tightly. "Wait!" the girl gasped. "Wait, please! It's not fair! I did everything they wanted. I—"

Whatever the rest of the sentence was going to be, she didn't get the chance to finish it. Domingo plunged the knife into her neck, then hurried over to Calantha as the cannon sounded. "Are you all right?"

Calantha barely seemed to hear him. "Domingo? How did you…? She was going to…"

"It doesn't matter," Domingo said quietly. "You're safe. You're gonna be fine."

But, even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Her wounds were deeper than they'd looked from a distance. Blood pooled around her on the ground. It was a wonder she was still alive. As quickly as he could, Domingo cut her free. Immediately, her body drooped limply into his arms. Calantha smiled a little. "Thank you."

Then the cannon sounded.

Domingo swallowed hard, fighting back tears. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't saved her. He hadn't even stepped in until the smoke had already—

The smoke. Domingo looked around, but it was gone. He glanced over at the other girl. What had she meant? _I did everything they wanted. _Had someone told her to go after Calantha? What had Calantha ever done to anyone?

She was right, Domingo thought as he stood up and made his way to the other girl's body. It wasn't fair. What _she _had done wasn't fair.

Frustrated, Domingo gave the girl's body a kick. Then another. Harder. A little too hard. He slipped in the rain, falling forward onto the body. But as he caught himself, his hand hit something. Something metal. The body was lying on top of something. Domingo quickly rolled it out of the way, then brushed away some of the mud, revealing some sort of metal door in the ground. Domingo pulled on the handle, and the door gave way, revealing a tunnel leading down into the earth.

Domingo stared. Was this why the smoke had attacked her? Had it been protecting this? Or had it meant for someone to find it? Meant for _him _to find it? Calantha's death, the other girl's death – Had it all been orchestrated so that he could find this?

Had there been a reason for all of it?

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15  
****District Three**

There had to be a reason for all the rain.

Horatio sat huddled beneath a large tree, eating one of the plants he'd found in the garden, wishing the rain would just stop. By now, all the tributes who didn't have shelter were certainly soaked. By now, they were all miserable. So why didn't the rain just stop? What further purpose could it possibly serve? They couldn't really be any more wet and cold and tired than they already were. Maybe it had been a clever idea at the start, but now it was just redundant. Pointless.

Unless…

Immediately, Horatio stood up, staring out at the water. It _did _seem a little closer than before. But he had to be sure. Slowly, Horatio crept back closer to the hovercraft on the beach. The Careers were gone – they had left in the early morning, going the other direction – but, still, he didn't dare venture close. Just close enough to confirm his theory.

But that was enough. When the hovercraft had first landed, it had been resting on the shore. Now it stood in a good half-inch or so of water. Which wasn't much water, perhaps – for now – but it meant he was right.

It meant he had to get to higher ground.

Immediately, Horatio made his way back to the garden. There, he stuffed as many vegetables as he could carry into his pockets. There was no telling how soon the garden might be underwater. How soon the whole _island_ might be underwater.

_Stop it. _Horatio shook his head. It had taken more than a day for the water to creep up from the ocean to where the hovercraft stood, and, even then, it wasn't very deep. He still had time. But there was no harm in getting a head start. There was no harm in finding a better position now.

Horatio glanced around. Uphill. He had to head uphill. His mind made up, he started making his way towards the nearest slope. The whole ground was wet and slippery, but the slope looked even worse. If he fell…

Horatio shook the thought from his head. If he fell, the slope wasn't steep enough to do any real harm. And it wasn't as if there were sharp rocks at the bottom. No, he had no reason _not_ to go up.

He started to climb.

He didn't see the caves until he had almost reached them. There seemed to be several, but one was decidedly bigger than the others. Horatio hesitated a moment. What if there was something in the caves? What if there was some_one_ in the caves?

But it was worth it. Worth the risk to get out of the pouring rain. Horatio took a deep breath, pulled his small blade from his pocket, and approached the mouth of the cave. He didn't see anyone. Which could mean there was no one – or that they were hidden. Horatio held up his weapon. "I don't want any trouble. I'm just looking for somewhere to rest."

And, to his surprise, a voice answered.

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

"Come on in."

Beckett took a step forward out of the shadows. The other boy stepped hesitantly into the cave, his fear clearly outweighed by his desire to escape the rain. He clutched something tightly in his hands, but, from what Beckett could tell, it looked more like a gardening trowel than a weapon. Maybe it would be useful in a pinch, but the boy didn't look particularly eager to use it. And Beckett had no intention of giving him a reason to.

Beckett held up his hands in what he hoped was a clearly non-threatening manner. "I'm Beckett. What's your name?"

"Horatio."

"District Three?"

The boy nodded. "And you?"

"District Ten." Beckett took a step closer. "I can't say this is the best place to rest, but it's a lot better than nothing. And there's plenty of room. You're welcome to join me." Beckett smiled, but, inside, he was trembling. If the other boy _did _want to fight, he wasn't really sure who would win. Beckett was stronger, but Horatio had a weapon.

"Join you?" the boy repeated. "Like … an alliance?"

Beckett nodded. "If you want." His own allies were nowhere to be found, after all. Making a new one might be a good place to start. And the only other choice was a fight. Both of them knew there was no simply walking away from this sort of situation.

"Why would you want me as an ally?" Horatio asked skeptically.

Beckett shrugged. "Why wouldn't I? You're smart enough to still be alive. You've managed to find a weapon. And unless those bulges in your pockets are rocks, you also found some sort of food."

Horatio nodded. "That would seem to put me in a pretty good position, I suppose. So why would I want _you _as an ally?"

Beckett took another step closer. He was a few inches and probably thirty or forty pounds larger than the other boy. The advantages of having him as an ally were fairly obvious. But if the other boy wanted him to spell it out, he would. "Protection. Shelter. Two of us can defend this cave better than one, if anyone else comes along. But if you'd rather fight…"

"No," Horatio said quickly, lowering his weapon. "No, you're right. It would be better if we worked together. And it's just you?"

Beckett nodded. "It's just me. My allies were in the other hovercraft. I don't know where they are – or if they're even looking for me." He shook his head. "What about you? Did you have allies?"

Horatio shook his head. "Didn't see the point. But now … maybe it's not such a bad idea after all." He dug in his pockets, pulled out a turnip, and tossed it to Beckett. "Allies?"

Beckett grinned as he caught the turnip. "Allies."

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

Maybe she should have found more allies when she'd had the chance.

Melody kicked a rock as she wandered through the jungle, no longer even sure exactly which way she had come. Stopping for the night had disoriented her, and in the rain, all the trees were beginning to look alike.

Melody clenched her fists. When Baylor had told her they might be separated, she should have suggested that they try to join one of the other alliances, offering their new information in return for being allowed in. That way, at least they wouldn't be alone. _She _wouldn't be alone.

But she hadn't thought of it. And, if Baylor had, he had said nothing. Both of them had assumed it would be fairly easy to find each other again. But it had been more than a day. Baylor was still alive – or, at least, he had been the night before – but she had no way of knowing whether she was any closer to finding him.

It would almost be easier if he were dead. Horrible, but easier. Easier than continuing on with no real idea of where to find him, but not wanting to give up the search in case he _was _still looking for her.

But was he? Was he even looking, or had he found new allies? With no idea of where to find her, would he still be searching, or focusing on keeping himself alive?

She wished she knew. Wished that Crispin would send her something – some hint about what she should do next. But her mentor and the sponsors had been silent. No one was interested in one girl wandering around the jungle.

Suddenly, Melody stopped. Looked around. She had thought – for a moment – that she had heard something. Some sort of sound. Maybe a mutt. Maybe another tribute. She listened closer. Yes. Yes, there was something. Above the rain and the wind. Something that sounded almost like … crying.

Cautiously, Melody followed the sound. Maybe it was Baylor. Maybe he had found her. Maybe…

But it wasn't. As she neared the edge of the jungle, Melody could see him. One of the younger boys – District Eleven, she was pretty sure. Sitting alone at the edge of the trees, sobbing.

Melody clenched her fists. This was her chance. Her chance to get their attention. The sponsors. Her mentor. All she had to do was kill him.

Melody swallowed hard. The thought made her sick. The boy hadn't done anything to her. He had no food. No supplies. And, from the look of it, no allies.

Melody took a step closer. No allies. That wasn't right. She recognized the boy. The other two from Eleven – they had always been with him during training. She remembered the three of them – wandering from station to station together, cutting off each other's hair so they would all look the same. She didn't remember seeing their faces in the sky.

So where were the others? Whatever had happened to them, it hadn't been very long ago. Not if he was still crying for them.

Melody brushed the rain out of her eyes. Yes, that was all it was. Just rain. She couldn't afford to cry, too – not if she was going to kill him.

Melody took a step closer. Then another. The boy didn't seem to notice her at all. Soon, she was right behind him. The perfect position to attack.

But she didn't. She couldn't. Not like this. Instead, she knelt down beside him and gave his shoulder a little shake. "Are you okay?"

The boy practically jumped up, startled. How had he not heard her? His eyes were wide with terror as Melody held up her hands. "It's all right. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy stared for a moment, wide-eyed. He pointed to Melody, then to himself, then back to her. It took Melody a moment to put the pieces together, but, once she did, she nodded. Then she took a step closer and wrapped her arms around the boy.

"It's okay. You're safe with me."

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****District Twelve Mentor**

"So what lies in the shadow of the statue?"

Brennan looked up as Harakuise took a seat next to him. "Your guess is as good as mine," he admitted.

Harakuise nodded. "So you didn't send the message, then."

Brennan shook his head. "No. You?"

Harakuise chuckled a little. "Why would I send your tributes a parachute – especially right after what happened with Zach?"

Brennan shrugged. "I figured it might be a trap – _because _of what happened with Zach. A message from sponsors luring tributes to their deaths wouldn't exactly be a first for you."

Harakuise took a long drink. "True, but I'm not that petty," he said at last. "I don't blame your tributes for defending themselves; anyone would have done the same thing. Zach should have known better than to take on both of them at once – or should have made sure Eleanor was dead before turning on Barry. But, more importantly, it was his choice."

"His choice to attack them, or his choice to volunteer for the Games?"

"Both. And that makes it a little better – a little easier."

"Does it really?"

"Only a little," Harakuise admitted. "Part of me wishes he hadn't volunteered – at least not this year. Even though we didn't have to send any extra tributes ourselves, the sheer numbers are … well, a bit daunting."

"Tell me about it," Brennan agreed. And it felt good – even saying that to someone. It felt wrong to complain to any of the others; most of them were dealing with more tributes than he was. But to hear Harakuise, of all people, admit that the extra tributes posed a challenge even for the districts without increased numbers – it certainly wasn't something he'd expected.

Harakuise took another drink. "I've been meaning to thank you, Brennan."

Brennan cocked an eyebrow. 'Thank you' certainly wasn't on the list of things he'd been expecting to hear from Harakuise, either. "For what?"

Harakuise met his gaze. "For your work with the tributes last year. Every non-Career district had at least one tribute join the rebels – all except District Twelve. Whatever you said to them, it must have been convincing."

Brennan shook his head. "I just told them the truth – about the rebels' chances, about what would happen to their families if they didn't fight. The same thing every other mentor told their tributes. I just got lucky enough to have two who listened."

Harakuise smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe it means something more. If tributes from District Twelve, of all districts, can remain loyal in the face of an uprising, then maybe that says something about the district as a whole."

"Sure," Brennan nodded. "It says we have a disproportionate amount of common sense. We know what a full-blown rebellion would mean for the districts, and we want no part of it. I don't think that's a secret."

"So you're saying that District Twelve recognizes the need for peace – even if there's a price."

"I suppose so."

"Even if that price is the Games?"

Brennan hesitated a moment. Where was Harakuise going? "Yes," he said at last, tentatively. "If the choice is between the Games and a rebellion that kills tens of thousands – maybe hundreds of thousands – yes, I'd choose the Games."

"And you would say that most of your district agrees with you?"

Brennan shrugged. "Given those two choices? Yes."

"And given the choice between sending tributes into the Games unprepared or sending them in with a little advantage…"

Brennan finished his drink, then waved to Eldred for another. "Harakuise, I just spent an entire night staying up watching your tribute stalk both of mine. As soon as they find whatever's in the shadow of this statue, I intend to get some rest. I've been awake since the start of the Games yesterday; I'm really not in the mood for riddles. If you're trying to make a point, it would be wonderful if you could get to it before I finish another drink."

Harakuise smirked. "Fair enough. Have you ever considered that District Twelve might do a bit better in the Games if your tributes had some training?"

So that was where he was going. "I'd be lying if I said no," Brennan admitted. "I think every mentor has wished at some point that their tributes were a bit more prepared. That they had some idea of how to deal with what was coming. That they had more than three days of training. But if you're suggesting that District Twelve start training Careers … I don't see that happening, Harakuise."

Harakuise nodded. "Neither did I – not for a long time. And it takes the right person to make it happen, or else Five would have been a Career district long ago. We're certainly loyal enough, but I wasn't the right person to start any sort of Career system. I didn't exactly win my Games because of my physical abilities. And while strategy is important, one can't build a Career system based on mind games alone."

Brennan shook his head. "And you think I'm a better candidate?"

"I think we both know the answer to that. You didn't win your Games because of your physical strength or fighting skills."

That much was certainly true. He'd killed five tributes, yes, but none of them had been particularly intimidating physically. Saoirse had been roughly his equal. Asteria had been almost dead by the time he had found her. Blythe had been unarmed. Alasdair had been twelve years old. And Mercury…

Brennan glanced down at his gloved right fist. Mercury had been his equal, his toughest opponent in the Games. And he hadn't bested her because of his strength. He had simply outlasted her. He'd been able to hold onto life a little longer than she had. And that had gotten him out of the arena alive, it was true, but that didn't make him qualified to train any sort of Careers.

"So neither of us was an amazing fighter," Brennan summed up. "What's your point?"

Harakuise smiled. "My point is that, even if you know you can't be the one to facilitate any sort of Career training, you could still encourage it. When Camden asked me to train her, I didn't say no. I didn't tell her how unqualified I was. I simply did my best. I taught her what I knew. So did Jai. She did the rest on her own, because she knew she had our support."

"So what you're saying is that if someone asks me to train them, I should say yes? I don't think I really have to worry about that happening."

Harakuise leaned forward a little. "What I'm saying, Brennan, is that a considerable amount of weapons were recently confiscated from District Four. Some of them will be channeled to District Five, but, quite frankly, our Career system isn't large enough to make use of all of District Four's resources. And if another loyal Victor – another loyal _district _– could make use of them … all the better."

"And if there's no interest?"

"Then there's no interest – yet. It took more than three decades for District Five to emerge as a Career district. I'm not saying volunteers will appear in Twelve overnight. But, quite frankly, Brennan, isn't your district tired of losing? Aren't you tired of losing tributes simply because they're unprepared, especially tributes who might do a little better – or might even win – if they had even a little training?"

_Yes. _He almost said it, too. Instead, he simply shrugged. "In case you haven't noticed, both of _my _tributes are still alive." _And just killed a 'more prepared' tribute._

Harakuise nodded. "Fair point. And maybe one of them will be the one to turn District Twelve's luck around. But if not … all I'm suggesting is that while you're handing out bread and cookies and trinkets, maybe you could throw in a lesson or two – no strings attached."

Brennan scoffed, holding up his crippled right hand. "You're kidding, right?"

Harakuise rolled his eyes. "All those years of carving and painting and molding pots and plates and all manner of other crafts? Don't pretend you're not left-handed by now."

Brennan almost said something. Something about the difference between holding a brush and holding a knife. Between creating a carving and carving the life out of a body. But he said none of it. In his own way, Harakuise was offering him a gift. A gift that might, in some small way, help District Twelve. Because even if he never gave a lesson, the fact that he could be trusted with weapons provided by the Capitol while District Four's Victors couldn't – that would mean something in the Capitol's eyes. Finally, Brennan nodded. "I'll give it some thought."

Harakuise smiled. "That's all I wanted."

* * *

"_What happened … was a part of a chain of events that led us here – that led us down a path – that led you and me to this day, to right now."_


	37. Getting Saner

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is still not mine.

**Note:** In case you haven't yet been informed by the fan fiction grapevine and haven't been stalking my profile ... I have an open SYOT. It's an alternate universe Victors' Quell, and I'm very excited. Information and the tribute form are on my profile, and there's still plenty of time to submit.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Getting Saner**

* * *

**Carolina Katzung  
****District Eight Mentor**

"I wish they'd make up their minds."

Carolina shook her head as Lander took another drink. "Who?"

Lander shrugged. "The audience. The Capitol. The Gamemakers. Whoever decides whether it's okay for tributes to torture each other in the Games. Vester's year, they were perfectly fine with it – because it was rebels who were being tortured. Then, your year, they did everything in their power to make sure Alicante didn't make it out alive … even though, when he died, he was in the process of torturing a rebel – or, at least, a rebel's son. Last year, everyone seemed content to watch anyone even remotely related to the rebellion – and even some who weren't – die brutal, agonizing deaths. But now, as soon as a tribute prolongs another's death even a little, making it a bit more painful that it had to be – boom! Instant smoke monster! Despite the fact that she could only do so _because _they sent her a weapon."

Carolina nodded. "You're looking for a pattern."

"Well, yeah. Because I'd like to help keep our tributes from becoming _part _of that pattern."

Carolina smiled a little. It always came back to that, in the end. If Lander was trying to solve a problem, figure out a pattern, there was always a reason. A reason that involved keeping their tributes alive. He didn't have Harakuise's compulsive urge to figure out everyone's motivation and inner workings, or her own need for order and reason. He would never admit it, but his motivations were simpler. Purer, maybe.

But that meant that he sometimes missed things.

Carolina took a long drink. "Sometimes there isn't a solution. Sometimes the pattern is that there isn't a pattern."

There was silence for a moment before Lander caved. "All right. Are you going to explain that, or just leave it hanging there?"

"It's all about what the audience wants. But what the audience wants isn't simple. If the audience simply wanted a lot of torture, every tribute would be trying to make every death as gruesome as possible. But they don't really want that. On the other hand, if they _didn't _want a lot of blood and gore, they could simply provide the tributes with a cornucopia full of guns. Certainly a lot quicker. But they don't want that, either."

"They want something in between."

"They want _everything _in between. The audience isn't a single entity, all wanting the same thing. They're people, and what they want fluctuates from year to year. Vester's year, he was able to play on the fact that the rebellion was recent. Their anger, their bloodlust – it was all fresh. By the time my Games came around, some of that had cooled – but not all of it. If Kaji had been Alicante's only victim, they would probably have gone along with it. Or maybe if he had _started _with Kaji. But he didn't. His motivations had nothing to do with the rebellion, and they picked up on that."

"And last year it was _all _about the rebellion," Lander nodded. "But what about India?"

Carolina shook her head. "I don't know. And maybe that's the point. Because what they're really after – what the audience _really _wants – is for the Games to be unpredictable." She shrugged. "And what's more unpredictable than a column of smoke swooping in out of nowhere to kill a random tribute?"

"It wasn't random," offered a voice.

Carolina glanced up at Eldred. "What do you mean?"

"The column of smoke – When did it first appear?"

"When the river pulled Cordelia's body into the cave," Carolina answered.

Eldred nodded. "And who would Cordelia have had a grudge against? Maybe the tribute who killed her brother?"

"India." Carolina shook her head. "You're saying that the smoke monster _is _Cordelia? Or that it's acting based on her wishes – her last thoughts?"

Eldred shrugged. "Not at all. I'm just saying that's what we're meant to think – and what some of the more gullible members of the audience might latch onto. Like you said, they're a mixed bunch. The idea of a tribute being transformed into a column of smoke and seeking revenge against those who wronged her – some of them will eat it up. The rest will dismiss it as nonsense, but it doesn't matter. It's _interesting_, it's unpredictable, and, like you said, that's what they want."

"They," Carolina repeated. "But not you?"

Eldred shrugged. "I'm just the barkeep. Doesn't really matter what I want."

"But if it did…"

Eldred smiled a little. "If I had my way, I'd do away with the mutts entirely. They're interesting, sure, but they take the focus away from the tributes. Some mutts moreso than others, of course. Seagull mutts? Who really cares? But as soon as you have dinosaurs running around stepping on tributes, then tributes have to resort to more and more drastic measure in order to get the audience's attention."

Carolina shook her head. "Alicante didn't do what he did to get attention. He did it because he thought it was beautiful."

Eldred simply shrugged. "I wasn't talking about Alicante."

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

"They weren't talking about a real shadow."

Eleanor nodded silently, fighting not to snap at Barry for stating the obvious. Of course the statue didn't have a shadow. Because shadows required sunlight. And the rain _still _hadn't stopped. So of course there was no real shadow; that should have been obvious from the start.

Should have been. They had been so focused on getting to the statue – getting somewhere that might be relatively safe – that they hadn't really considered the wording of the message. But now that they were standing next to a giant statue of what appeared to be a human with the head of some sort of mutt, and there didn't seem to be anything useful in sight.

Still, Barry seemed determined to get as close as possible. "Maybe we could stay out of the rain, at least," he suggested. Eleanor followed him closer, until they were standing beneath the statue's two giant legs, which blocked most of the rain. "See?" Barry smiled. "This isn't so bad."

And maybe it wasn't. But she had been hoping for more. Some sort of shelter or protection, not just a barrier for the rain. But she sat down next to Barry, anyway, leaning against one of the statue's feet.

It was better than nothing.

Eleanor leaned back against the statue, exhausted. Her shoulder was throbbing. Her whole body ached. Why had they walked this far instead of simply settling down under one of the trees that had been nearby? It would have served the same purpose…

Suddenly, Eleanor felt the wall behind her give way. She lurched forward just in time to avoid falling as the stone slid away, revealing a doorway. Barry stared, grinning like an idiot at the open passageway behind her. "So that's what they meant! They didn't mean a shadow outside the statue. They meant _What lies inside the statue?_"

Eleanor shook her head. "Then why not just say that? Why say 'in the shadow'?"

Barry shrugged. "Maybe it sounded more mysterious. Who cares? Let's check it out."

Eleanor hesitated. "Do you think it's safe?"

"Safer than what? Than waiting around out here for more Careers to catch up to us?"

He had a point. Nothing in the Games was ever going to be completely safe. And if Brennan had wanted them to come here, then maybe Barry was right. Maybe it meant they were still being followed and would need somewhere safe to hide.

Besides, it couldn't be much worse than staying outside and being pummeled by rain. "All right," Eleanor agreed reluctantly. "Inside the statue it is." Cautiously, the pair of them stepped inside.

And the door slid shut behind them.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He wished he could close the door behind him.

Domingo took a deep breath as he tied the last of the rope back together, hoping his knots would hold. All in all, he had somewhere between fifteen and twenty feet of rope, knotted and twisted together where India had sliced it apart to tie Calantha.

He just hoped it would be enough.

Whether or not it was enough, of course, depended on how long the tunnel continued straight down from the hatch before branching off. If it _did _branch off. Domingo clenched the rope tightly in his fists. It had to. It couldn't go down forever. The Gamemakers wouldn't have led him here simply to let him drop to his death.

Would they?

But they had led the other girl to her death. The girl from Three had clearly believed she was following the Gamemakers' instructions. What made him any different?

Domingo turned the coil of rope over in his hands. He would just have to hope that he _was _different. That the Gamemakers would spare him. That they had something else in mind. Because he certainly wasn't going to spend any more time out in the cold and the rain – not with the two bodies they still hadn't collected.

Not if he didn't have to.

Using as little rope as he could, Domingo tied the end around the nearest tree. It was smaller than the others, its trunk thinner, but he didn't dare use one that was farther away. He would need every inch of rope. He would just have to hope the tree would hold.

Domingo dropped the other end of the rope into the hole. Part of him wanted to close the door behind him. To block the rain. To keep anyone from following him down. But then he would be climbing in darkness. Domingo swallowed hard. He would just have to hope no one would come after him.

That was a lot of hoping.

Domingo shook his head. Even if he closed the door, other tributes would still notice it was there. They could still see the rope tied to a tree. They would still be able to find him. Closing the door would accomplish nothing – except perhaps lulling himself into a false sense of safety. And blocking some of the rain. But, assuming the drop did end at some point and branch off, he would be out of the rain soon enough. And if it didn't…

If it didn't, then he could just climb back up. Which would be easier if he could see. His mind made up, Domingo gripped the first knot in the rope, swung his legs into the tunnel, and started to climb down the rope.

At first, it was easy. Almost too easy. Gripping the rope in both hands, Domingo placed both his feet against the wall of the tunnel, and simply slid down little after little. Slowly, the light at the top grew farther and farther away. Domingo looked down. He might as well have closed the door, for all he could see. He couldn't see the bottom – if it existed. He could barely see his hands on the rope.

But he could feel it when he reached the end.

For a moment, he panicked, gripping the knot he had tied at the end with all his strength. He had told himself he could simply climb back up if he didn't reach the bottom. But there was a part of him that hadn't really believed he would run out of rope. He had assumed the bottom would be close.

Domingo looked down. Maybe it was. Maybe it was right below his feet. Or maybe it was twenty, fifty, or even a hundred feet down. Could he survive twenty feet? Fifty?

And what if there was nothing at the bottom? What if it was just a hole? If he let go of the rope now – even if the drop didn't kill him – he wouldn't be able to climb back out. What if there was nothing down there?

But what if there _was_?

What if there was food, or weapons, or dry clothes – just a few feet below him? Could he afford not to take that chance?

What would the audience think?

The audience. So far, he had survived – but he owed none of that to himself. Audra had spared his life. It was mere chance that India had found Calantha instead of him in the jungle. If the column of smoke hadn't attacked her, he would never have been able to kill her. He wouldn't have any weapons at all…

The knife.

His arms aching, Domingo pulled himself up a few feet along the rope, wrapped his legs around it, and reached into one of his pockets. He pulled out the girl's knife, took a deep breath, and dropped it.

_Plop_.

One second. Maybe two. The plop had sounded like water. Which made sense – rain had been falling into the hole ever since he'd opened the hatch. But how much water? How deep? He hadn't even thought of that. If there was a pond down there, or a lake, or simply ocean water, he didn't stand a chance.

But if it was just a puddle, formed by the water that had fallen…

_Stop thinking_.

There was no choice. Not really. The longer he spent trying to talk himself out of it, the more he realized what he had to do. Slowly, carefully, Domingo slid back down to the end of the rope. He took a deep breath. "One," he whispered. "Two. Three. Four. Five."

Then he let go.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

He couldn't just let her go.

Evander wiped the rain from his eyes as the four of them raced after Nadine. The little girl was faster than she looked. Or perhaps Adelia didn't want to catch her just yet. She knew Nadine was leading them somewhere, so maybe she was simply content to follow.

For now, the rest of them seemed to agree. Aleron might still be out there somewhere, but that was no reason to let Nadine simply run off, as well. Especially when there was no guarantee that Aleron was coming back.

Evander clenched his fists. He should have done something. Should have stayed awake. Should have kept a better eye on Aleron. The boy was his district partner, after all. They were supposed to take care of each other.

But they couldn't take care of each other forever.

Was Aleron simply ahead of the rest of them? Had he seen an opportunity to split off peacefully and simply taken it? But it was only the second day. Why join their alliance in the first place if he was going to leave them so soon?

Suddenly, Nadine stopped. "There!" she pointed triumphantly, waiting for them to catch up.

And, as they came to the top of a smaller hill, they could see what she was pointing at. Houses. Three of them, at least – maybe more – just beyond a small river, narrow enough to wade across – or maybe even jump across. Evander stared, blinking the rain from his eyes, convinced he must be seeing things. Why would the Gamemakers put houses in the middle of the arena?

But, as they neared the river, it was clear that the houses weren't an illusion. The nearest one stood just beyond the river – large and inviting and a very cheery yellow. And there, standing next to the house and grinning, was Aleron.

Aleron waved, still smirking. "What took you so long?"

Evander immediately charged through the river, his boots sloshing in the shallow water until he reached the other side. "You idiot! We were all worried! Why didn't you tell us where you were going?" He threw his arms around Aleron.

Aleron only shrugged. "Because I didn't know. I was thinking that maybe if I found some weapons, we could go back and take the cornucopia. But this is even better! Come on! Take a look inside!"

Flabbergasted, the five of them followed Aleron inside the house. Immediately inside was a large wooden table, piled high with plenty of fruit, vegetables, nuts, and dried meat. Six places were set around the table, almost as if they'd been expected.

"I wanted to wait for you, but I got hungry," Aleron shrugged. "So I helped myself. But there's plenty left. It's just like a cornucopia. Better, because we're the only ones who know it's here."

_For now_, Evander almost said. Large stockpiles of food didn't go unnoticed in the Games for long. "What if someone else finds us?" he asked at last.

Aleron shrugged, picking up the knife from one of the place settings. "I'm guessing that's why they gave us these." The knife was sharp – almost a steak knife, better for cutting meat than the fruits and vegetables that covered the table. Aleron slammed the knife down into one of the tomatoes, squirting juice everywhere.

"If they find us, we'll be ready."

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

She was ready.

Presley stretched a little as Ivira woke her. They had taken turns sleeping during the day. Better for keeping watch, Ivira had said. And, after what had happened during the night, Presley had been too tired to argue. Ivira had taken the first watch, and, every so often, they had traded. Every couple of hours, they had said at the start, but, without the sun, they had no real way of telling time, so they'd had to make do with their best guess.

And, so far, things had gone pretty well. The sky was growing darker. The second day of the Games was almost over, and no one but the boy from Eight had found them. For the most part, they had slept soundly. There had been five cannons since the boy's, but, so far, no one had disturbed them.

But that couldn't last forever. They both knew that. Eventually, someone else would find them. And, when they did, they had to be ready to take advantage of that. "Should I start crying again?" Presley asked.

Ivira shook her head. "We shouldn't use the same trick again – not so soon, at least."

_Why not? _Presley almost asked. It had worked, after all. And the tributes certainly wouldn't know. The boy certainly hadn't had time to tell anyone else. But the audience. _They _would know. If they kept using the same strategy over and over again, the audience would grow bored of it. They needed to come up with something new. Because that was what the audience wanted.

_Give them what they want to see._

"So what do you think—" Presley started to ask, but, immediately, Ivira clapped a hand over her mouth. Instinctively, Presley bit the other girl's hand as hard as she could. Ivira barely stifled a yelp, yanking her hand away. "Shh," Ivira hissed. "I heard someone."

Presley froze. "Who is it?"

Ivira peered over the edge of the pit. "I don't know. I don't see them. But I thought I heard voices. So that means there's probably more than one."

More than one. Between the two of them, they had been able to handle the boy from Eight on their own. But would they be able to take on more than one tribute at a time – with only a pair of hammers? "What do we do?" Presley whispered.

"We can't stay here," Ivira whispered back. "The Gamemakers will make sure they find us. We can't attack them – not yet. Not without knowing how many of them there are."

"So we run?" Presley asked. She didn't like it, but it seemed like the only other option.

Ivira shook her head. "No, not run. If we run, they'll catch us. Or the Gamemakers will stop us. But we have to get out of here – and quickly."

"So what do we do?"

Ivira grinned. "We stalk."

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

They almost looked like they were stalking something.

Brevin watched, confused, as the pair of tributes crept forwards in the jungle, watching the ground intently, as if following something. He glanced over at Kendall, who shook her head. _Not yet_.

They could attack, of course. From what they could see, the only weapons the girls had were a pair of hammers. Not that he and Kendall had much, but they'd managed to find a pair of large sticks to use as clubs. Once they got within reach, it would be a short fight. An easy fight.

But if the girls had found something – a trail, or maybe some tracks – then that might lead them to something even better. A trail could mean other tributes. Tracks could mean food. What sort of trail they could be following in the rain, Brevin wasn't sure, but they were certainly looking at _something_, and following it so intently that they hadn't even noticed him and Kendall.

Or perhaps they were pretending not to.

That was the other option, of course. It might be a trick. Maybe the pair had heard them coming and assumed that, if they appeared to be tracking something themselves, maybe he and Kendall wouldn't attack right away. But, the way he saw it, there was no harm in waiting. They could attack at any time, if they decided it was a trick. Why not wait it out a little longer?

And Kendall seemed to be on the same page, tiptoeing along beside him through the mud. These two would be easy kills – either now or later. If there was a chance they could be following someone stronger, or some sort of mutt that could be good for food, then it was worth the chance of losing them.

Because that was really the only risk of waiting – the small chance that they might get away. It couldn't be a trap – not without some sort of alliance waiting for them. And the younger girl was from Six. He had killed one of her allies, and the other two had been among the faces in the sky. As for the older girl – the girl from Eight – her allies were probably wherever the rest of _his _alliance was: nowhere to be found.

Probably.

Brevin clenched his teeth. Part of him wanted to attack now. To get it over with. Maybe then the sponsors would finally send something. A weapon, maybe. Or even just a little food. They'd managed to find some roots and berries that he'd been certain weren't poisonous, but even those hadn't been very filling. But if they had a weapon, then they could hunt – and not just other tributes. They could hunt for food.

But only if they found weapons. Or earned some from the sponsors. And, yes, they could attack these two now. But why would that make any more of an impression than their two kills during the bloodbath? No, they had to find someone stronger. Someone more impressive. Or a larger alliance.

But were they in a position to take on a larger alliance?

Brevin shook the thought form his head. No use worrying about that until they actually _found _someone else. Right now, all they had was a pair of girls with hammers. They could wait. They would have to wait.

Just a little longer.

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18  
****District Four**

Just a little longer.

Jarlan drummed his fingers on the wall of the hovercraft. Just a little longer. He could wait a little longer for the others to come back. With any luck, they had found a tribute or two, and that was why they had taken so long to return. With any luck, they had a kill or two under their belts by now.

And, with any luck, that would satisfy them for a while.

"They'll be back soon," Delvin nodded reassuringly. "They're Careers. They can take care of themselves."

Jarlan shook his head. "_One _of them is a Career. The other two … I should have gone, instead." Maybe they weren't ready. Maybe he had been wrong about them. Maybe they turned on Imalia and… No. No, he couldn't start thinking like that. And he certainly couldn't let the audience hear it. District Four had already lost two tributes on the first day. They couldn't lose any more. Not yet.

Not when he could have stopped it.

Jarlan wandered outside, hoping for some sign of the others. He had stayed – at least in part – out of a desire to stay somewhere warm and dry, somewhere it would be safe. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. Next time, he would go with them. Next time, he would be the one to _suggest _going.

Assuming there was a next time.

Then he saw them. Three figures, heading towards the hovercraft along the beach. Jarlan breathed a sigh of relief as they drew closer. Imalia was in the lead, carrying something that looked almost like a crowbar. Indira followed, carrying some sort of sack over her shoulder. Last came Shale, a knife in his hand. Jarlan smiled as they approached. He had been right all along – they had only taken so long because they had found something. Some_one_.

There had been no need to worry at all.

"Still in one piece?" Imalia called as they approached the hovercraft.

Jarlan nodded. "And you? Looks like you've got quite a bit to show for your trouble."

Imalia held up her crowbar. "The sponsors were feeling generous today."

Jarlan cocked an eyebrow. "All this was from sponsors?"

"Just the crowbar. The rest we found in a cabin – along with two of the tributes from Eleven."

Eleven. Jarlan glanced at Shale, but his expression was blank. Unreadable. "I take it they're dead?" Jarlan asked, unsure how else to word the question.

Imalia nodded crisply. "Hence the sponsors. How about you? Any trouble?"

Jarlan hesitated. He'd been debating how to tell the others about Delvin. He'd made the right choice – that much he was sure of – but would they see it that way? He'd wanted to wait for the right moment to tell them, but there was no avoiding it now. Jarlan smiled a little.

"Come and see."

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

"Come and see."

Imalia relaxed a little as Jarlan led them inside the hovercraft. When he hadn't wanted to come hunting, she had almost started to worry that maybe he didn't have it in him. That maybe he didn't want to kill. That maybe he had _never _wanted to kill, and was here – in the Games – for a completely different reason. But if someone had attacked the cornucopia, and he had successfully defended it, that had to count for something, right?

Her mood was shattered, however, as soon as they stepped inside the hovercraft. She had expected a body, some blood – at least some sign of a struggle. Instead, there stood one of the boys from District Six – alive and well. Jarlan smiled. "Imalia, this is Delvin. He's with us now. Delvin, this is Imalia, Indira, and Shale."

Immediately, Indira stepped forward to shake the boy's hand, and Shale gave him a welcoming clap on the back. Imalia simply watched, not sure who to be angry at – Delvin, for being alive; Jarlan, for not killing him; or Indira and Shale, for not questioning Jarlan's decision for a moment. It was almost the end of the second day of the Games. She had killed two tributes already. And what had Jarlan done? They were supposed to be eliminating the other tributes, not recruiting them.

Unless this was what he had wanted all along. What if Jarlan had managed to fool them – her, the mentors, the trainers – this entire time? What if he _was _a rebel? What if this was all part of his plan?

If it was, she couldn't afford to get caught up in it. But she also couldn't afford to start a fight. Not now. Not when Indira, Shale, and obviously Delvin would side with Jarlan. She had to play her cards right if she wanted to turn this into a fight she could win.

So she held out her hand. Delvin shook it. The alliance was solidified – for now. Imalia turned to Jarlan, forcing a smile. "The cabin we found – I think we should go back there."

Jarlan cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's farther inland. Closer to where the other tributes will be. Besides, there's nothing here – unless Delvin managed to find anything you didn't."

Delvin shook his head. "It's bare. Even the cockpit – completely cleaned out."

"Then there's no reason to stay," Imalia shrugged. "We head for the cabin, use that as a base, and strike out again at sunrise. What do you say?"

Jarlan clenched his jaw – ever so slightly, but she caught it. He wanted to argue. To object. To ask who had appointed her the leader. But maybe the title was hers now. She had led the last expedition. She was the only one in the group who had killed. Maybe that was enough to tip the balance in her favor.

Besides, there was no real argument to be made. No reason he could give for why they should stay. So, at last, he nodded. "Sounds good to me. Let's go."

He was the first one out of the hovercraft, taking the lead. Perhaps trying to regain his position. But they both knew better. Until he proved himself – until he killed – her opinion would carry more weight. If not with the others, then at least with the Capitol. With the sponsors. And she could use that.

She just had to be patient.

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18  
****District Five**

She was tired of being patient.

Liana shook her head as the five of them trudged through the woods. Two days. Almost two full days, and nothing to show for it. Nothing except Septimus' kill during the bloodbath. Well, that and the berries and nuts they'd managed to collect. But still no weapons. Still no more kills.

And the cannons kept sounding.

Thirteen so far. And their group – one of the largest in the arena – was responsible for only one. They had to do something soon. But how were they supposed to kill tributes if they couldn't _find _any of them?

_Be patient_, Harakuise had said, before the Games. _Be patient_, Septimus had said, more times than she wanted to count. But she was tired of being patient. She was tired of waiting. She was tired of trekking through the jungle and finding nothing.

She wanted to do _something_.

"What's that?"

Liana looked up. Audra had stopped, and was pointing at something. Something nestled along the side of a cliff up ahead, caught in the branches of a few trees. It was large and yellow, and, as they got closer, they could see it was some sort of plane. "Looks like it crashed," Thane offered.

Septimus shook his head. "It would appear so, yes, but the Gamemakers obviously placed it there for a reason."

"For us to find?" Liana asked.

Septimus shrugged. "For someone to find, yes. It probably wasn't meant for us specifically – we just happened to be the lucky group. Maybe there's something useful inside. Someone should go up and find out." Liana was about to volunteer, but Septimus turned to Audra. "You up for a climb?"

Audra glanced up at the plane. "Me?"

Septimus nodded. "You're the one who found it. The job's yours if you want it."

"You want me to go up there … and go inside?"

"If it looks like it'll hold your weight," Septimus nodded. "If not, just give us a shout, we'll get out of the way, and you can give it a push. Hopefully, whatever's inside will remain relatively intact when it comes down."

"I…" Audra hesitated.

Liana rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not like he's asking you to kill your district partner or anything."

That hit the right nerve. Audra had been unable to kill her district partner. Maybe the boy had gotten lucky, or maybe she had been too afraid. Either way, the failure was too recent not to affect her judgment. She couldn't afford to fail again – not when the task was this simple. Audra nodded.

"All right. I'll do it."

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

"All right. I'll do it."

Audra regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. But she couldn't back out now. Not again. She had already backed out of killing Domingo. Septimus wasn't asking her to kill anyone this time. He was just asking her to climb up to a plane and knock it down for them.

How hard could that be?

Trying not to look as nervous as she felt, Audra knelt down and unlaced her boots. They were full of water, anyway, and the soles didn't have a very good grip. Maybe Domingo had the right idea all along. As she stood up, Sariya gave her a clap on the back. "You've got this."

She wished she was as sure. The cliff looked a lot steeper up close. Vines and tree roots lined the slope, but would that be enough for her to keep her footing? Audra shook the thought from her head. She couldn't afford to second guess herself. She couldn't afford to look weak.

Not again.

Slowly, she started to climb. She found one handhold, then another. The rain made the vines and the rocks slippery, but, for the first time, she was glad it had rained for the past two days. She was almost used to it by now. Soon, the yellow plane was within reach.

Still, she gripped the vine she was holding. Would the plane hold her weight? It certainly didn't look like it would. It was small – small enough for one or two people, perhaps. There didn't seem to be anything important inside. It would probably be safer just to knock it down…

But could she afford to play it safe? Would the audience be content simply watching her knock a plane off a cliff? Or would they want her to venture inside? Audra inched closer. She could at least try. Maybe there _was _something useful inside. And, if there was, did she want to risk breaking it?

But did she want to risk her life?

Audra clenched her fists tightly around the vines. There was no choice. Not really. She wasn't about to risk her life for something that _might _be inside the plane. "Look out!" she called. "Plane coming down!" The others scurried out of the way, and Audra inched closer to the plane. Closer. Closer.

Clinging tightly to the vine in one hand, she gave the plane a push with the other. It wouldn't budge. Audra hesitated a moment, then climbed higher. Above the plane. Using one of the vines, she lowered herself down. Down. Still gripping the vine tightly, she quickly shifted all her weight onto the tail of the plane.

That was enough. As she held onto the vine, the plane gave way beneath her. Audra quickly found her footing on the cliff again as the plane crashed to the ground. Smiling, she made her way down the cliff.

By the time she reached the bottom, the others were already searching the wreckage. "Find anything good?" Audra asked, trying not to sound winded. Trying to give the impression that the whole thing had been a breeze.

Septimus nodded. "As a matter of fact, yes." He produced a helmet from the wreckage – a helmet with a light, almost like a miner's helmet. Then another. Then a third. Then three more. Six in all. All seemed perfectly intact.

"Six," Audra realized. "So they were meant for us. Five for us, and one for—"

Septimus shook his head. "Delvin's gone. They probably chose six because there weren't any groups larger than that. There was no way they could have known it would be us."

Audra nodded. Of course not. The Gamemakers couldn't have known who would head inland and who would stay near the shore. Who would still have a full group by the time someone found the plane and who would be on their own. Still, it was a bit unnerving.

But no one else seemed bothered. They simply strapped on their helmets and turned on the lights, the five of them illuminating the jungle in the twilight. Audra smiled a little. If this _had _been planned by the Gamemakers, that could only mean one thing: they were showing them favor. If the Gamemakers were going to choose sides, at least they had chosen to support _their _group, not someone else's.

But it still didn't seem fair.

* * *

**Inviticus Cassiano, 18  
****District One**

It just wasn't fair.

Inviticus flung one of his screwdrivers against the rocks, retrieved it, and repeated the motion as they trudged on. Again. And again. It wasn't fair. He had assumed that once he finally got the others to agree to leave the hovercraft, it would be relatively easy to find tributes. Usually, there were at least a few tributes who stayed close to the cornucopia in the hopes of snagging some supplies when the Career inevitably left.

But there were no supplies. There was no food. There had been no reason for any of the other tributes to stay near the cornucopia. After hours of walking along the beach, and then along the rocky shore, they had found nothing. Nothing but a few fish that Naella had managed to catch with her bare hands when they ventured into the shallows.

"It's getting dark," Jaime observed. "We should find some sort of shelter for the night."

Naella pointed. "Those rocks up there – let's get a closer look. If there are some sort of caves, we could rest there. And there might be a tribute or two," she added hopefully, casting a smile in his direction.

Inviticus glared back. She probably just wanted a place to rest for the night – just like Jaime. They probably didn't even want to find any tributes. They'd certainly been making enough noise as they went along to alert any tributes in the area. What if they didn't _want _to kill at all?

What if that was the plan?

No. No, that was silly. They had killed during the bloodbath, after all – or, at least, Jaime had. But only to protect him. If Auster hadn't come after him, she would have been perfectly content to stay hidden in the hovercraft without a kill to her name.

What if the two of them wanted it that way?

Inviticus gripped his screwdriver. If the rebels were trying to gain a foothold, the Career districts were a natural place to start. If they could sway the Careers, after all, they could sway anyone. What if Jaime and Naella…

No. No, Jade would have noticed. Someone at the training academy would have noticed if Jaime was a rebel.

But no one had noticed in District Four…

_Stop it._

Inviticus gripped his screwdrivers as the three of them approached the rocks. There _did _seem to be some sort of cave. Inviticus crept closer, hoping. Hoping there would be a tribute or two.

But it was empty. Inviticus cursed loudly, his voice echoing off the walls. Jaime simply shrugged. "At least it'll be somewhere dry to stay for the night. Could be worse."

Inviticus scowled. "Oh, yes. Could be worse. We could have actually _found _someone."

Jaime glared right back. "We've been looking, all right? I haven't seen _you _find anyone."

Inviticus shook his head. "And you think that's an accident? You don't think there's a _reason _we haven't found anyone all day?" He smirked. "I know the truth. One of you is a rebel."

Jaime sighed wearily. "Inviticus, get some rest."

"No. No, we're going to settle this – right now," Inviticus insisted. "One of you is a rebel, and I know how to find out who."

Jaime rolled her eyes. "This ought to be good."

Inviticus crossed his arms. "It's simple, really. You two fight each other." He smiled.

"Then we'll know."

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

She didn't know what had gotten into him.

Jaime watched Inviticus warily as Naella shook her head. Inviticus had always been a bit paranoid, but this was ridiculous. Why would either of them be working with the rebels? "We're not going to fight each other," Naella said firmly.

Inviticus' smile widened. "I knew it! It's not one of you – it's both of you! You're _both _traitors!" He fingered his screwdrivers. "And we all know what happens to traitors."

Jaime glanced at Naella, who nodded. In an instant, the pair of them charged. Roaring, Inviticus dove for Jaime first, assuming she still had her knife. But, even as he did, Jaime tossed the knife to Naella. Still hurling himself at Jaime, Inviticus didn't have time to react as the knife slashed across his thigh. Jaime ducked, avoiding the brunt of Inviticus' blows. The tip of one of the screwdrivers nicked her shoulder, but the rest of his weight simply sent him barreling forward towards the cave wall.

Before Inviticus could turn around, Naella flung the knife at his back. The throw was perfectly aimed, but, instead of piercing his skin, the pocketknife simply buckled, folding up again. Inviticus whirled around, snatching up the knife, this time charging at Naella. Naella ducked, but she couldn't dodge Inviticus' blows forever. Not without help.

Jaime didn't hesitate. Inviticus was her district partner, but he was trying to kill them. He was convinced one of them was a rebel. He had clearly lost it. He was more of a danger than an asset now. Without thinking, Jaime threw herself into the fray, catching Inviticus off-guard and managing to wrap an arm around his neck. Inviticus thrashed, hurling himself back against the wall of the cave, trying to shake her grip. But she held firm.

At the same time, Naella lunged, striking Inviticus' head with her wrench. Inviticus lashed back, the pocketknife slicing across Naella's arm, but Naella ducked, and Jaime squeezed harder. Inviticus gasped for air. Naella ducked below his blows and kicked him in the crotch. Once. Twice. Finally, he went down, and Naella snatched the knife from his grasp. As Jaime held on, Naella dragged the knife across her district partner's throat.

Blood. So much blood. She barely heard the cannon over the echo of the rain on the cave. Over the pounding of her own heart. For a moment, the two of them simply sat there, Inviticus' blood staining their clothes, trying to catch their breaths. "Nice work," Naella managed at last.

Jaime nodded. "You, too." They'd made a good team. Better than she and Inviticus had ever been. "Are you all right?"

Naella glanced at her arm. "Just a scratch. You."

"Just a few bruises," Jaime shrugged. In truth, her side ached where Inviticus had slammed her into the wall. But she would be fine by morning, she had no doubt. She'd dealt with her fair share of bruises and cuts at the academy. This was no different.

Except for the fact that Inviticus was dead, and their 'pack' was now down to two. Jaime sighed. Maybe they should have gone after Inviticus in the bloodbath, after all. At least then, Auster would still be alive. Assuming _he _wouldn't have gone crazy and accused them of being rebels.

Jaime shook her head. There was no way she could have known. No way any of them could have known just how far Inviticus' mind had slipped. Whatever thoughts had been brewing in his head throughout the day, he had kept them to himself. He had given no sign of his suspicions – not until attacking them.

Jaime glanced at Naella as they rolled Inviticus' body outside for the hovercraft to collect. Maybe it had been inevitable. Inviticus had always been a bit unstable. Maybe it had been bound to happen sooner or later. And, if so, maybe it was better that it had happened now, when the two of them could work together.

They made a good team.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

They made a good team.

Ivira smiled at Presley as the two of them crept onwards. They were still being followed. Closely. But the younger girl had shown no sign of fear – not since Ivira had explained her plan.

Her plan. It wasn't much of a plan, really. More of a hope. A hope that if they kept going, pretending to be following something, eventually they would actually _find _something. Either something interesting enough to distract their pursuers, or perhaps another tribute or two. A tribute – or even a group of tributes – who would present a more tempting target.

So far, however, they had found nothing. Uphill, downhill, and now uphill again. Surely their pursuers were growing tired. How long before they simply gave up – or decided that they might as well attack?

That question could very well determine how long they had left to live.

But if Presley was afraid, she didn't show it. She simply kept staring at the ground, following their imaginary trail. Pretending. Pretending they still had a chance.

Just as Ivira was beginning to wonder if maybe they should turn around and take their chances in a fair fight, the Capitol anthem filled the air. Ivira glanced up as the first face – the face of the boy from One – filled the sky. The girl from Three followed, and then the boy from Five. Ivira hid a smile. Two more Careers down.

The boy from Eight was next – their kill. But she didn't dare show any pride, in case their stalkers were watching her. Better for them to think she and Presley were helpless. Defenseless. Not a threat.

Calantha's face was next. Ivira felt Presley's hand grasp hers in a silent offer of condolence. Ivira nodded. Gadget and now Calantha gone. Domingo was still out there somewhere, but how long would he last without any of the others? No, it was better not to even think about them. Presley was her only real ally now.

The last two faces belonged to the girl and a boy from Eleven. Not a huge surprise, perhaps, but what _was _surprising was the lack of the third face. The three of them had been inseparable during training, but, apparently, one of them had managed to escape whatever fate had befallen the other two.

And that was it. Seven faces. Combined with the seven from the night before, that made fourteen. Fourteen dead. Thirty-two left.

Just as the light from the Capitol emblem was starting to fade from the sky, Presley pointed silently. And Ivira saw it. Lights. Some sort of lights in the valley below. A faint, gentle glow – almost like the lights of a house. Ivira smiled a little and squeezed Presley's hand as they continued down the slope.

Maybe they would get lucky, after all.

* * *

**Jade Floren  
****District One Mentor**

"There was nothing you could have done differently."

Jade wrapped an arm gently around his son's shoulders. But Jasper simply shook his head. "I thought he was the perfect choice. He always did so well in training."

Jade nodded. "Yes, he did. Sometimes the stress of the actual Games starts to affect tributes in ways you wouldn't expect. And there's no real way of knowing beforehand which tributes will be able to fight through it, and which will snap. Oh, we can do our best to prepare them mentally as well as physically, but when it comes down to it, it's up to them. Turns out, Inviticus just didn't have what it took. It was nothing you did or didn't do. Everything that happened, he did to himself."

Jasper nodded a little, but Jade could tell the message hadn't sunk in. "We should have been able to tell. We should have known."

Jade shrugged. "Maybe. What appeared to be loyalty and patriotism during training turned to paranoia in the Games. Maybe we should have seen that coming. But any trait a tribute may have can be dangerous when taken to an extreme. We can't make our decisions based on what _might _happen, how a tribute _might _act during the Games. We have to make our best judgments based on what we know at the time. We can't see the future. We're not all-powerful. We're just doing the best we can – same as them."

Jasper watched the screen silently for a moment. "Does it ever get easier?"

"Yes and no," Jade admitted. "Eventually, you learn to accept the fact that you're not in control. That there are some things you simply can't prevent, that you can't predict everything a tribute will do. But does that make it easier? No. Not really."

"So why do you keep doing it – after all these years. You and mother – why do you keep mentoring?"

Jade shrugged. "Because someone has to do it."

Jasper shook his head. "But the others could do it. In the other districts, the younger Victors mentor, and the older ones retire. Why not ask Felix or Scarlet or Amelia to mentor? Or me?"

Jade thought for a moment. "We've thought about it – we really have. But one thing always wins out, Jasper." He smiled a little. "Your mother was the first tribute I brought home. And that moment, Jasper – the moment she won, and the hovercraft picked her up, and I knew she was safe – that was one of the best moments of my life. All the late nights, all the worry, all the heartbreak – it's all worth it, for even one or two of those moments. I've had three of those moments – three lives I've saved. Your mother – she has two. And one of those lives was yours. I can only imagine how wonderful that felt, to be the one to bring her son home from the arena. Those moments, Jasper – that's why we keep mentoring. For the chance to have just one more of those moments. And, if you keep mentoring, eventually, you'll have yours."

_But not this year_, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. Inviticus had been Jasper's tribute. And he was gone. But to bring Jaime home – that would be a victory for them both. For all of District One.

But, for now, all they could do was wait.

* * *

"_Crazy people don't know they're going crazy. They think they're getting saner."_


	38. Choose

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "favorite alliance" poll if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

Also, a shout-out to my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, who just completed the Games portion of her first SYOT and is starting another - this time a Quarter Quell! Check out her profile for more info, and send some tributes her way.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Choose**

* * *

**Lander Katzung  
****District Eight Mentor**

This was always the worst part.

Lander silently drained his glass and set it down beside Carolina's. Watching one of their tributes hunting was one thing. Watching their tributes _be _hunted was worse. But the worst part, without fail, was when one of their tributes ended up hunting the other.

Not that Ivira knew she was hunting Adelia and her group, of course. She had no way of knowing exactly who was in the houses. Or, more precisely, who was _on _the houses. Adelia had split her group up, two to a house, and the six of them were now perched on the shallow rooftops. It was a good vantage point, and not a bad plan, but would that be enough to save them?

Maybe if Ivira and Presley were the only attackers. But Kendall and Brevin were close behind. Would Adelia and her allies be able to hold off all of them? Lander had his doubts, but he also knew that running would have been just as useless – if not worse. The audience wanted a fight, and they would get it – one way or another.

Lander watched as Ivira and Presley crept closer to the houses. Would they hesitate, he wondered, if they knew exactly who they were hunting? Would Ivira hesitate if she knew Adelia and Jediah were among their prey? Would Presley think twice if she knew Nadine was with them?

Probably not. They didn't have any more choice than Adelia and her group did – not really. They had to either keep up the act, pretend to keep hunting, or turn and face a pair of Careers. Neither was a good option, but they had probably made the best choice.

But sometimes the best choice wasn't good enough.

* * *

**Ivira Spielreyn, 16  
****District Eight**

They would have to choose.

Ivira glanced over at Presley as the two of them approached the group of three houses. She hadn't seen anyone recently or heard any footsteps over the rain, but she was certain they were still being followed. They couldn't stop or turn back – that wasn't the choice.

They simply had to choose a house.

But which one? Ivira gripped her hammer tightly. All three were giving off a faint glow, as if the lights were turned on inside. Were there tributes in all three? Or had they simply turned on all the lights to confuse any attackers? But why turn on any lights in the first place? If not for the lights, they might not have spotted the houses. Maybe the lights simply didn't turn off, or maybe the Gamemakers had turned them on.

Or maybe it was a trap.

Maybe. But if it was, it was still a better option than turning and fighting. Between glances, out of the corner of her eye, she had been able to determine that there were two tributes following them. Which wouldn't have been bad odds – except she was fairly certain they were the pair from Four. The same pair that had killed Presley's ally.

Which was why she hadn't said anything to Presley. If she knew, would that make her more frightened? Or would she want to turn and fight? Neither was a good option, so she had said nothing. But she couldn't keep their tracker's identities a secret forever.

Right now, though, she was more worried about what she didn't know – who might be in the houses. Quickly, she tried to run through a list of the tributes who were still alive. Had they ventured far enough that they might even run into some tributes from the non-replacement group? If so, then there were too many options. If not…

There was another group of Careers – she knew that much. But she hadn't seen them leaving the hovercraft. Did that mean they were still there? One of the younger tributes from Eleven was still alive, as were the girls from Ten and Seven. But she doubted any of them would pose much of a threat.

Adelia and Jediah's group, on the other hand…

Had they run this way? There had been six of them, and she didn't remember seeing any of their faces in the sky. If they were all still alive, and together, and here…

But would they really kill her? Did they have it in them? Or could she persuade them to let her join them – maybe buy their trust with the information that the Careers were right behind them. Maybe. Adelia and Jediah – they weren't killers. And, for all they knew, neither was she. They would have no way of knowing what she had done to Louis.

Louis. He had been her district partner, too. And that hadn't stopped her from killing him. Why should she expect anything else from Adelia and Jediah?

Ivira clutched her hammer. Adelia and Jediah weren't like her. They were softer. Weaker. And she could use that – for a while, at least. If it was even them. If there was even anyone here. Maybe there wasn't anyone at all.

She wasn't sure which option was better.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

She wasn't sure which option was better.

Adelia gripped her knife tightly, watching from her position on the roof as Ivira and her ally approached. She and Evander lay flat against the roof of the first house. Nearby, Aleron and Myrah held their position on the second house, and Jediah and Nadine on the third. She would rather have had Jediah at her side, but they had agreed that it was better to split up their best fighters, since they had no way of knowing which house any attackers would target.

Their best fighters. Adelia held her breath as the pair approached, hoping that was an accurate description. Given her position as the oldest, the others had naturally assumed she would be one of the better fighters. Jediah was the other obvious choice, given his size and his six in training. And Aleron had been quick to speak up and claim the third spot, assuming that since he had found the houses in the first place, he should be placed in charge of one of them.

She had her doubts about that, but she hadn't felt like arguing the point. At the time, she had thought, it would probably be a moot point. There was no guarantee that anyone would be attacking. She had simply thought it would be a good idea to practice. To be cautious.

And that caution had paid off. Two tributes were about to walk into what Adelia hadn't realized could very easily become a trap. She had intended for them simply to defend themselves in case of an attack, but if they were in a position to attack…

They had to take it. There wasn't a choice. Not really. After what had happened last year, no tribute could afford to pass up an opportunity – especially not when it would be six against two. It should be an easy fight. A pair of easy kills.

But why did one of them have to be her district partner?

Adelia swallowed hard, trying to tell herself it didn't matter. Ivira had done nothing but insult and harass them during training. Maybe she deserved whatever she got. Maybe. And that 'maybe' would have to be enough – enough to get her through what was coming. Because there was no other choice.

Adelia glanced at Evander as Ivira crept closer and closer to their house. Ivira ventured in first, then the little girl behind her. "Go," Adelia whispered. Immediately, she and Evander leapt down from the roof and rushed inside the house. A cry from another rooftop told her someone was trying to join them, but, as soon as she and Evander stepped through the door, it slammed shut behind them.

They were on their own.

"I was hoping it would be you."

Adelia held up her knife between herself and Ivira. That wasn't quite the response she'd been expecting. "Why?"

Ivira smirked. "Because together we might have a chance. There are two Careers right behind us, but if we join forces, we can fight them together. What do you think?"

Adelia glanced at Evander, who was clearly considering it. She had to do something – before Ivira and her ally took advantage of his hesitation. "What do I think? I think there aren't any Careers out there at all. I think you were coming here expecting an easy kill – maybe one or two tributes to ambush. And I think—" She smiled for the cameras. "I think I'm going to enjoy this."

Without another word, she lunged.

* * *

**Presley Delon, 13  
****District Six**

She wasn't sure who was more surprised.

Presley stared, bewildered, as Adelia lunged at Ivira, who seemed just as surprised. The first slash from Adelia's knife caught her in the shoulder, and, immediately, blood started to flow. Presley gave a shout and charged at Adelia, hammer raised. But before she could reach the other girl, someone tackled her from behind.

Presley kicked, landing a blow to the boy's face, but he grabbed her legs and held fast. "Ivira!" she called, but Ivira wasn't faring any better. She was stumbling, trying to staunch the flow of blood from her arm while fending off the other girl's attacks. Presley watched, helpless, as the other girl backed Ivira into a corner. Desperate, Ivira dove low, aiming her hammer at the girl's legs, but the other girl saw the blow coming and kicked the hammer away.

"Please," Ivira gasped. "Please. I wasn't lying about the Careers. Let me help you. Please."

But it was no good. The other girl plunged her knife into Ivira's chest. Ivira screamed, but a second blow quickly silenced her, and then the cannon sounded. From her position on the floor, Presley simply stared. It wasn't fair. Alexi. Paget. Cordelia. And now Ivira.

And soon it would be her.

Presley thrashed harder, trying to escape the older boy's grasp. The boy held firm, but nothing more. He made no move to harm her. "Please," Presley whispered. "Please, just let me go. Now. Before she stops you."

For a moment, the boy seemed to be considering it, but, before he could act, the girl was at his side, her jumpsuit stained with Ivira's blood. "Do you want me to do it?"

Do it. It took Presley a moment to realize what the words meant. _Do you want me to kill her? _"No, please," she begged, tears coming to her eyes. "Please. Just let me go. I won't hurt you. I'll never come back here. Please."

The boy glanced up at the girl. "Adelia…"

"No," the girl said firmly. "We don't let anyone go. Either you do it, or I will."

The boy raised his knife. Presley thrashed, struggling to get free, but the girl knelt down, holding her in place. Helpless. Presley squeezed her eyes shut. Was this how they had felt – the people she had killed? Mr. Rafferty. His wife. The other teachers. The boy from Eight. Had they been this afraid?

Presley braced herself for what she knew was coming. Maybe what had always been coming. Had she ever really had a chance? Presley gasped as the knife entered her chest. If she had ever had a chance, it was gone now. Gone, like the lives of so many before her, and so many who would come after.

Gone.

There was a second blow, but it barely hurt anymore. Nothing hurt – not really. It was all going cold. Presley opened her eyes one last time. Her vision was blurry, but she could see the boy kneeling over her, holding a bloody knife. So he had done it, after all. Presley's gaze met his. "Good work," she whispered.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

_Good work._

Evander looked away as the cannon sounded, wishing he could block out the words. The sound. The blood. Wishing he could take back the blow that had ended the little girl's life. Wishing he could bring life back to the eyes that were staring at him, accusing and yet somehow, at the same time, approving his actions. Condoning what he had done.

Maybe even forgiving him.

But there was no forgiveness. Not in the Games. There was only death. So much death.

"Come on." Evander barely heard Adelia's voice. "We should get out of here. If she was telling the truth about the Careers, the others need to know."

Evander looked up, shocked. "You said she was lying."

Adelia shook her head. "I don't know if she was lying or not. But it doesn't matter. They wouldn't have been much help, anyway. And they would have turned on us the first chance they got. It's better this way."

Better. No. No, it wasn't better. But he didn't dare say so. Instead, he simply stood up and followed Adelia to the door.

But the door wouldn't open. Adelia tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn't budge. Evander's heart raced. There was only one reason for the Gamemakers to lock them inside.

Ivira had been telling the truth.

"Aleron!" he called without thinking. "Jediah! Myrah! Nadine! Look out! The Careers are coming!"

The words were barely out of his mouth before he heard a cannon. Then another. Screaming. Some sort of pounding. Was someone pounding on the door? Or was it his own heart?

"The table!" Adelia shouted, toppling it over. Evander rushed to her side and, together, they lifted the table. "One. Two. Three!" Adelia called, and they rammed it into the door. Once. Twice.

The third time, the door gave way. Dropping the table, Evander and Adelia grabbed their knives and raced out into the night.

But it was already too late.

* * *

**Jediah Bouvier, 15  
****District Eight**

It was too late.

Jediah leapt down from the roof as Adelia and Evander raced inside the house after the two girls. But it was too late; the door slammed shut behind them. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath as he tried the doorknob. It wouldn't turn. Why would the Gamemakers want to lock them inside? Unless…

That was when he saw them – two more tributes, running towards the houses. Jediah glanced up at Nadine, Myrah, and Aleron, still perched safely on their rooftops. Where he should be. Where he _would _be, if he hadn't been so worried about Adelia.

But that didn't matter anymore. The Careers had almost certainly seen him by now. But maybe they hadn't seen his allies. If they thought he was alone…

Without thinking, Jediah charged.

As he neared the Careers, one of them swung a branch. Jediah dodged the first blow, then ducked beneath the second. "Is that the best you've got?" he grinned. "A couple of sticks?" Could it be that they weren't actually armed?

Could he really be that lucky?

Jediah gripped his knife as the girl swung again. He dodged her blow, but the boy's branch caught him in the leg. For a moment, Jediah lost his balance, stumbling forward towards the girl. His knife brushed her side as she leapt out of the way. Jediah laughed. Maybe he had a chance, after all.

Jediah barely had time to regain his footing before the boy swung again. Again, he dodged – this time, with a bit more flourish. Frustrated, the boy swung harder. Jediah backed up bit by bit, dodging their blows, lashing out every now and then with his knife.

Just as he was starting to think that maybe he was getting the hang of this, after all, the girl circled behind him. Jediah whirled around, sidestepping her blow, but, as he did, the boy's branch caught him in the side. Jediah barely kept his grip on his knife as the girl lunged, knocking him to the ground along with her. She raised her club.

But, as the branch came down, something blocked it. Some_one_. Jediah stared as Nadine and Myrah caught the branch as it came down, turning the blow away and tackling the girl. The boy from Four quickly joined the pile. Jediah gripped his knife, striking blindly at the girl on top of him. There was an angry shout, and some of the weight left the pile.

Jediah rolled over, trying to get a better look at what was going on. The boy from Four was on top of him, but he could still see a little. Myrah lay off to his right, motionless. On his other side, the girl from Four had pinned Nadine and was reaching for her knife. Jediah slashed wildly, hoping to hit something. The boy cried out, stumbling backwards. Jediah leapt up, racing towards Nadine.

He reached her just as the knife came down, burying itself in Nadine's chest. With a shout, Jediah plunged his own knife into the girl's back. The girl gave a cry of pain and turned, yanking the knife from Nadine's chest and lunging at Jediah, who didn't have a chance to dodge. The pair tumbled to the ground, the girl with a knife in her back, Jediah with her blade in his chest. With all the strength he had left, Jediah reached for the girl's club, which lay discarded next to Nadine, and swung. The branch connected with the girl's head as everything went dark.

Jediah closed his eyes as the girl's cannon echoed through the arena. He could feel his own body growing colder. For a moment, he thought he heard Adelia's voice.

Then his cannon sounded.

* * *

**Nadine Olliston, 14  
****District Six**

_Boom_.

Nadine winced as the fourth cannon sounded. She had been sure it would be her own. Blood seeped from the wound in her chest. Everything was growing blurry. She didn't have much time left.

But someone else had died first.

Nadine gasped weakly, trying to breathe. First. Last. What did it matter now? Soon, it would be her turn.

"Nadine!" a voice called, drawing her back. Adelia. So she was still alive. Good. Very good.

Nadine smiled weakly as the older girl came into view, helping her sit up a little, taking her hand. But there were tears in Adelia's eyes, and her hands were covered in blood. Nadine glanced around, but it was too dark. Too dark to tell who was dead. Who was alive. "Who…" she managed, hoping Adelia would understand.

"Jediah," Adelia said quietly, her tears mixing with the rain that was streaming down her face. "He's … he's dead."

Jediah. He had tried to save her. If she hadn't been there…

Nadine coughed weakly, squeezing Adelia's hand. "Myrah?"

"She's unconscious." Evander's voice this time. "But she's alive."

"The Careers," Nadine whispered. "Where—"

Adelia shook her head. "One of them's dead. We found her with Jediah. The other ran off once he saw how many of us there were."

"And Aleron?"

Adelia glanced at Evander, who shook his head. "I don't know."

Nadine coughed weakly. The last she had seen of Aleron, he was on the rooftop. He hadn't jumped down when she and Myrah had. Maybe he was still there. Maybe he had run.

Maybe it didn't matter.

He hadn't been there. He hadn't tried to save her. But Jediah had. She and Myrah had taken on the Careers together. And Adelia and Evander were there now. Maybe that was all that mattered.

Maybe that was all that had ever mattered.

Nadine squeezed Adelia's hand a little tighter. She could feel the warmth in her ally's hand. No, not just her ally. Her friend. Maybe that was all she needed now.

She closed her eyes as the cannon sounded.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

He couldn't stop running.

Brevin raced forward in the dark as the fifth cannon sounded. Five cannons. Five.

And one of them was Kendall's.

Brevin wiped the rain from his face. This wasn't supposed to happen. The two tributes they had been tracking should have been easy kills. Even the others were just a bunch of kids armed with kitchen knives.

And now he was running from them.

Brevin cursed himself silently as he ran. He was running from them. That wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be the other way around. Other tributes ran from packs of Careers. That was how the Games worked.

But he didn't have a pack. Not anymore. And his only ally in the area had been killed by one of those kids with kitchen knives. One of them had even managed to wound _him. _His arm was bleeding even as he ran. So when the other two had arrived, he had run. He had run faster than he ever had in training, he was sure.

As far as he could tell, they weren't following him. They had their own problems to worry about. Their own wounds to tend to. Kendall had killed at least one of them, and he was pretty sure he'd hit one pretty hard in the head with his club before…

Before he had run. Like a coward. But what choice did he have? They were armed. There were more of them. He was just one Career.

Finally, he slowed down a little. _Stop. Just stop and think_. They weren't chasing him. They wouldn't be chasing him anytime soon. There was no need to run.

But running had felt good. At least then he was doing _something_. And that was better than thinking about what had happened.

What had they done wrong?

Brevin clenched his fists. No. No, it wasn't his fault. And it wasn't Kendall's fault. It was their fault – the other tributes. It was their fault his ally was dead. And once he got a weapon of some sort, he would make them pay.

A weapon. Brevin picked up a branch and flung it at the nearest tree. Weapons were what he had been hoping for when they had decided to follow the pair of girls back to whatever they were tracking. He had been hoping that if they impressed the sponsors, maybe they would send something. A sword, an axe, a spear – even a knife or two would be better than nothing.

But nothing was all he had now. Worse than nothing, because the others _had _weapons. How had they gotten them? What had they done that he hadn't? Surely they hadn't been hunting and killing tributes. Had they simply gotten lucky?

It wasn't fair.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

It wasn't fair.

Aleron brushed away the rain and the tears as he ran. Five cannons. Five. One for each of his allies. They were dead. All dead.

Probably, at least. And he didn't dare go back to look. He had stayed as long as he dared – watching from the rooftop. He had seen Jediah jump down, seen him run at the Careers. He had seen Myrah and Nadine follow him.

Then he had jumped – and run the other way. His allies were as good as dead. There was no point in getting himself killed, too. If he survived, maybe he could avenge them.

Yes. Yes, that was it. He hadn't run because he was scared. He simply had a duty to escape – and to return to avenge his fallen allies. Aleron smiled a little as he slowed his pace. Yes. Yes, he would go back.

But not yet. Not when it would be four against one. The two tributes who had entered the house – they were undoubtedly working with the Careers. But that sort of alliance wouldn't last. He could wait. Wait for them to turn on each other. And then finish them off while they were weaker.

He just had to be patient.

And, in the meantime, he had to keep moving. If the Careers had any sense, they would notice that he was missing. That he hadn't been killed with the others. Then they would come after him. They were probably right behind him.

Probably.

He couldn't hear them, but who _would _be able to hear them over the rain? Aleron clutched his knife tightly. They could be in the shadows right next to him – even behind one of the nearby trees – and he would never know. Not until their blades had pierced him through.

No. No, that wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it. He had survived so far. He had been lucky.

He could get lucky again.

But not _that _lucky. Stumbling on a group of houses stocked with food and weapons – he couldn't count on that happening again. Aleron pulled out one of the carrots he had stashed in his pockets and took a bite. He hadn't had much with him on the roof – just enough for a few snacks if he got hungry while they were keeping watch. Nothing compared to the food that was still inside the houses.

The food that was now in the Careers' possession.

Did that mean they would stay there? Maybe. For a little while, at least. Maybe he was safe. Maybe the promise of food would be enough to keep them from pursuing him for a little while. But not forever. He had to keep moving.

He had to get as far away as possible.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She didn't remember it being this far.

Indira glanced around as another flash of lightning lit the tree line. The cabin was nowhere to be found. Imalia shook her head, frustrated. "It was right here! It can't have just disappeared."

"Why not?" Indira asked casually.

Imalia turned. "What?"

"Why couldn't it disappear? Gods descending on Mount Olympus? Sure. Fairy tales coming to life in an old library? Fine. But you draw the line at a disappearing cabin?"

Imalia stopped short, and, for a moment, Indira thought she might snap. She had been tense ever since Jarlan had introduced Delvin to the group. Maybe even before that. Maybe since she had killed the tributes from Eleven. Maybe disagreeing with her wasn't such a good idea.

But, just as Indira was about to apologize for saying anything, Imalia started laughing. At first, it was just a small chuckle, but, soon, she was laughing uncontrollably, clutching her sides to keep from doubling over. Indira took a hesitant step closer. "Are you all right?"

Finally, Imalia caught her breath. "I … I think so."

"So what now? If the cabin's gone, do we head back to the hovercraft?"

Imalia shook her head. "No. No, we can't go back there, either. If the Gamemakers wanted to let us stay in one place, the cabin would have been a better option. For all we know, the hovercraft's gone, too. No, we just need to keep moving until we find … something."

"Something?" Jarlan asked skeptically. "What are you expecting to find?"

"Tributes," Imalia offered. "That's why we're here, after all. And there probably aren't any close to the hovercraft."

"I was," Delvin pointed out.

"And did you see anyone else?" Imalia asked. "Or did the rest of them figure out that there was nothing there and move along?" Delvin's silence was answer enough. "Then that's what we should do, too. There's nothing at the hovercraft. There's nothing at the cabin – or where the cabin was. So we move on. We find something else – or some_one _else."

"Couldn't we rest for a while?" Jarlan suggested. "There were five cannons – we should be safe for a while."

Imalia shook her head. "It's not about being _safe_. If you wanted to be safe, you should have stayed in District Four. There were five cannons, yes. Five tributes. Five tributes that _we _didn't kill."

Indira fought back a lump in her throat. Five cannons. Five tributes she hadn't had a hand in killing, yes, but five tributes, nonetheless. Had one of them been Beckett? Elizabet? They weren't just 'five tributes.' They had names. Faces. Lives.

Lives that had to end if she wanted to go home. Those five cannons – they had to sound. And more would sound before the Games were over. Maybe before the night was over. How long before one of those deaths would be on her hands?

Indira watched Imalia silently as they continued on. She already had two kills. Why was she so eager for more? Every cannon – every tribute who died – brought them one step closer to the end of the Games, yes. But it also brought them one step closer to the point where their alliance, inevitably, would crumble.

Indira shook her head. She didn't want to think about that. Not yet. But she couldn't put it off forever. And, as she watched Imalia plunging ahead, and Jarlan and Shale trudging along slowly at the back of the pack, she couldn't help but wonder if the crumbling had already begun.

What would happen when she had to choose?

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

He had chosen to leave them.

Myrah clenched her fists as she and the others searched the houses for any sign of Aleron. She had no doubt that he was gone. That he had run. No doubt that he was still alive somewhere.

But Nadine and Jediah were dead.

It was his fault. Myrah squeezed her fists tighter. If he hadn't run – if there had been one more person to face the Careers – would they have kept fighting? The boy had run when Adelia and Evander had joined the fight. If Aleron had been with them at the start…

But he hadn't been. He had run. They had fought. It was that simple. Adelia and Evander – it wasn't their fault they had been locked inside the house. They hadn't had a choice. But the rest of them had. Jediah had chosen to fight. Nadine and Myrah had chosen to help him. And maybe she hadn't been particularly useful in the fight, but at least she had tried, and she had a headache to prove it.

Aleron hadn't even tried. He had run. Like a coward. It was his fault. He was as much to blame as the Careers. Yes. He was the one to blame.

Because that was safer. Safer than placing the blame where it really belonged – with the Gamemakers. With the Capitol. Aleron had abandoned them when they needed him, yes, but it was the Capitol's fault they were in that position to begin with. It was the Capitol's fault they were in the Games.

They all knew it. But no one said it. No one dared. Not after what happened last year. So it would be Aleron's fault, and it would be the Careers' fault, because _someone _had to take the blame. Someone who didn't have the power to murder her family with a single word.

Her family.

Myrah swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat. "I'm okay," she whispered to no one in particular, hoping her family would hear, as she sat down in the doorway of one of the houses. "I'll be all right. I'm alive."

And that much was true. She was alive. Nadine and Jediah were dead, but it could have been her. And it hadn't been. She had been lucky. Lucky the blow from the boy's club hadn't been enough to kill her. Lucky the girl had gone after Nadine instead of her.

And that was the worst part, maybe. What made her any different, any stronger, than Nadine had been? Why was she here, when two of her allies were gone? Why was she still alive?

She hadn't had any say in it – not really. She hadn't done anything special. She hadn't fought any harder than Nadine had. There was no reason – no good reason, at least – why she was still alive, and they were the ones who had died.

She had just been lucky.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

He had been lucky so far.

Delvin quickened his pace a bit, struggling to keep up with Imalia as she led the way into the jungle. Once they had realized the cabin was gone, it hadn't taken them long to decide that they should head inland. Most of the tributes, Imalia had said, would be in the jungle, seeking at least a little shelter from the rain among the trees.

So far, they had found no one. Nothing. They had been walking for hours – in the dark, the cold, the rain – and, so far, nothing. No tributes. No shelter. He was tired. His legs were sore. He could barely see.

But he knew better than to say so. He was alive, and that was more than could be said for nineteen of the other tributes. Nineteen cannons so far. And none of them had been his.

But one of them could have been. It could have been twenty cannons. But Jarlan had spared him. He had gotten lucky. Luckier than he'd had any right to expect. Lucky that Jarlan, not Imalia, had been the one guarding the hovercraft.

He couldn't count on getting that lucky again.

So he would have to be careful, instead. More careful than he had been. He couldn't let them think that he wasn't up to being part of their alliance. That he wasn't pulling his weight.

He had to keep up.

"I think Jarlan made a mistake."

Delvin clenched his fists as he fell in stride next to Imalia. "Letting me live?"

Imalia shook her head. "No. Well, yes. But that wasn't the first mistake. I think he made a mistake volunteering for the Games. He doesn't belong here. He's soft. And eventually that's going to put us all in danger."

Delvin tensed. "Why are you telling me this?" Was she giving the Capitol an explanation for why she was about to attack him? Delvin glanced behind him, but the other three were well out of earshot.

Imalia hesitated. "Because…" Her voice faltered for a moment, unsure. Then she took a deep breath. "Because you're the one he won't suspect."

That wasn't what he'd expected to hear. "Suspect of what?"

"In the morning, I'm going to suggest that we split up – cover more ground. You're going to ask to go with Jarlan; I'm going to take Shale and Indira. I need you to take care of Jarlan for me."

It took Delvin a moment to realize what she was asking. "You want me to … to kill him?"

"Yes."

"And he won't suspect me because…"

"Because you owe him your life."

Delvin looked away. She was right. He owed Jarlan his life. And that should have been a reason _not _to kill him. But they were in the Hunger Games. Jarlan would have to die eventually. And if Imalia was right – if he didn't belong there in the first place, if his attitude was going to put them in danger…

"And why should I go along with your plan?" Delvin asked. _What's in it for me? _How many times had he said those words? But never before had anyone asked him to kill…

Lightning flashed, and Delvin thought he saw Imalia smile. "Because, of the five of us, two of us have training. Two of us know what we're doing. But only one of us has killed. Two of us had the opportunity, but Jarlan let you live, instead. I disagree with his choice, but, since you're still alive, we might as well work together. So when we come across another tribute, would you rather have a leader who will let them live out of mercy … or a leader who will do what needs to be done?"

Delvin swallowed hard. There was no choice. No doubt about what the Capitol would want to hear. He had to agree. He had to kill, or risk being seen as a rebel by the audience, the Gamemakers, the president. He couldn't risk that – not when his mother's life and Megan's life could be at risk if he refused to play along. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Sounds like we have a plan."

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

They were still convinced he had a plan.

Septimus leaned back against a tree as he and his allies settled in for the night. Or the morning. Whatever was left of the night was slowly giving way to a faint light through the rain. The third day of the Hunger Games was dawning.

And he was still waiting.

Stalling, really. Driving his alliance farther and farther inland in the hope that, eventually, an opportunity would present itself. That was what the Games were, in the end. A series of opportunities. Some of them were worth taking, and some weren't.

That was what most of the tributes didn't understand. Most of them would be restless by now. Either eager for something to happen, or dreading what might come to pass. Some would be so thirsty for opportunities that they would try to create their own. Others would ignore the opportunities that came their way out of fear or reluctance.

Neither of those paths led to victory.

Patience was the key – a sort of patience that few understood. Most of the tributes would confuse patience with inactivity. But, despite their low kill count, his alliance had been far from inactive. On the other hand, there were those who believed that as long as tributes were doing _something_, the audience would be satisfied. But simply keeping his alliance moving wasn't enough.

The plane had been a good start – and a hint that they were on the right track. But by itself, it wasn't enough. Not enough of an opportunity. Not enough to hold the audience's interest. The Gamemakers had given them the tools, but they still needed a target.

Two days gone. Nineteen tributes gone. The Gamemakers wouldn't wait forever. Sooner or later, they would have to find _someone_.

Wouldn't they?

Septimus sighed, leaning back against the tree, trying to ignore the rain. The constant, steady pounding. The helmets they had found helped them see, it was true, but they only made the rain worse. Louder. More persistent. Finally, Septimus slid his helmet off. They didn't need them right now. Not while they were resting.

And they did need rest. They might not have found any tributes, but they had certainly covered a lot of ground in two days. Septimus shook his head. Maybe the island was bigger than he'd assumed. But if the Gamemakers made it _too _big, it would be harder to drive tributes together.

Then again, that didn't seem to have been a problem so far. Nineteen cannons – and only six of them during the bloodbath. Tributes had certainly been busy, and probably the Gamemakers, too.

So why had his alliance been spared?

As if in answer, a gentle pinging noise filled the air. Septimus looked up as his allies slowly roused themselves. The parachute landed at his feet – small, unobtrusive, with a "2" on the package. Septimus nodded as he opened it.

It was about time.

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

He wished he could have waited a little longer.

Harakuise watched as Septimus unwrapped the gift he and Balthasar had sent. It was a small compass, identical to the one Baylor had received – except in one respect. Each compass was set to point towards a different tribute's tracker. It hadn't taken Baylor long to figure out that his was leading him to Melody. The one they had sent to Septimus, on the other hand…

Harakuise slid into a seat next to Nicodemus. "I'm sorry."

Nicodemus shook his head. "The compass – it's leading them to Delvin, isn't it."

"Yes." Delvin had been the logical choice. He was with a large alliance – a large alliance with plans to split up into smaller groups. They were nearby. Delvin was conflicted. Harakuise could use that.

But there was a part of him that wished he didn't have to. Not when Delvin was the only tribute Nicodemus had left. Not so soon after he had lost both Presley and Nadine in one night.

But the opportunity was too good to pass up.

"I would do the same thing."

Harakuise cocked an eyebrow. The admission caught him off guard – especially coming from Nicodemus. But maybe it shouldn't have. Looking at him, it was easy to forget the boy who had hidden in the caves beneath the arena, emerging only at night to stalk unsuspecting tributes. It was easy to forget that he had killed six tributes in all – twice Harakuise's own total.

It was easy to forget he was a Victor.

"He's the logical choice," Nicodemus admitted. "Their group's about to split in half. With the lack of training Septimus and Liana's allies have, the group of two will make a better target than the group of three. And it creates drama – What will they do when they encounter their long-lost ally? I can hear Constance already."

"But…" Harakuise prompted.

"Nothing."

Harakuise leaned back in his chair. "Mm-hmm."

Nicodemus sighed. "All right. It's not fair. None of it. Nadine and her allies find somewhere safe, and they barely settle in before the Careers attack. Presley finally finds an ally she works perfectly with, and now they're both dead. And Delvin – he's trapped. Trapped between two alliances, neither of which really gives a damn about what happens to him. And you _knew_, didn't you? You _knew _he would end up separated from his allies, and you told Septimus and Liana to recruit him, anyway."

Harakuise nodded. "I did. He was already allied with the pair from Nine. Recruiting them and not him would have tipped our hand."

Nicodemus shook his head. "And that's the worst part."

"The fact that I knew?"

"No." He took a long drink. "The fact that it makes sense. That you weren't being malicious or cruel just for the sake of messing with his head. You had a good reason. You only did what any of us would have done if we'd realized what the Gamemakers were planning. I would probably have done the same thing. And _that's _the worst part … that we're not all that different."

"You and me?"

"All of us. Victors. Tributes. We're shaped by our experiences, certainly, but change a few of those circumstances, and, deep down, we're more alike than we'd like to admit. Take Presley. Can I honestly say, given the same circumstances as she had growing up, that I would have turned out any differently? Can I say that? Can you?

"Or take the Games. People in the districts look at what some of the tributes are forced to do and think that they would never break. That they could never be forced to stoop that low. That they could never be that ruthless, that desperate, that cruel. But most of them are lying to themselves. Most of us are capable of doing … unspeakable things. The Games just bring that to the surface."

Harakuise nodded. "That's certainly true."

Nicodemus shook his head. "That – that's what I don't understand."

"What?"

"How you can say that, and then … support the Games. Encourage the Career system in District Five. How, when you just agreed that the Games bring out the worst in us—"

Harakuise nodded. "They do. The Games reveal what we're capable of – what we're _all_ capable of. And that's good. We need to remember that – to be reminded of it – in order to keep it in check. The Games are … cruel. Unfair. Cold-hearted. Take your pick. But they're also necessary. And they're better than the alternative."

"The alternative?"

"The Games are one way of keeping any rebellion in check." He placed a hand on Nicodemus' wheelchair. "This is the other. Tell me … which do you prefer?"

Nicodemus didn't answer. He didn't have to. They both knew. Even the more rebellious Victors would have to admit that the Games were better than what had happened last year. Given the choice between the Games and the consequences of a rebellion, Harakuise knew which side Nicodemus would fall on. Which side most of the Victors would fall on.

In the end, there was no choice at all.

* * *

"_You don't do it because you choose to … You do it because you're supposed to."_


	39. Next

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "favorite alliance" poll are up on the blog, and there's a new poll up on my profile. Now that the pool of tributes has lessened considerably, I'm asking who you think the final five will be. (Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want _the final five to be; that'll be the next one.) As usual, don't head over to the poll until after you read the chapter, since anyone who dies here won't be included.

Also, as with the final eight poll, please do actually vote for _five _tributes for the final five. Voting for only one or two throws off my stats, which makes for a grumpy math teacher.

Friendly reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins has an open SYOT. Also, a shout-out to jacob1106, who recently finished his first SYOT and has opened submissions for his second! Send them some tributes!

* * *

**Day Three  
****Next**

* * *

**Balthasar Doyle  
****District Two Mentor**

"This isn't so bad."

Balthasar smiled a little as he took a seat next to Harriet. Harriet cocked an eyebrow. "What isn't so bad?"

Balthasar shrugged. "This whole mentoring thing. All these years, I've avoided it because I figured it was a lot of hard work and disappointment. But this – this isn't so bad."

Harriet smirked. "It's not all sunshine and sponsor gifts. Both of our tributes are still alive, but that won't last forever."

Balthasar nodded. "Even so – even if Septimus doesn't make it – there's something satisfying about knowing that I was able to help him. That Harakuise and I were able to send a sponsor gift that would change … well, everything. Whatever happens now, being able to find Delvin – that'll make a difference."

"Absolutely. But will that difference be a good one? Do you really think they can take on Jarlan's alliance?"

"The whole alliance? No. But they're about to split up."

"Assuming Imalia's plan goes … well, according to plan."

Balthasar nodded. "And that's why we're so important. We can see the bigger picture. Septimus and his group have no way of knowing that Jarlan's group is about to split – or even that they're nearby. We're their only link to the outside world. That kind of power … it's heady stuff."

Harriet nodded knowingly. "Your mentor wasn't really much help during your Games, was she."

"No," Balthasar admitted. "Mortimer wanted nothing to do with me, and Ariadne wasn't particularly impressed, either. They both wrote me off as soon as I volunteered. Back then, I didn't think it mattered; I managed well enough on my own. But everyone deserves to know that _someone _is rooting for them."

"Is that why you offered to mentor Septimus?"

"I suppose that's part of it," Balthasar agreed. "And I'll admit the idea of mentoring without having to worry about Mortimer breathing down my neck was … appealing. And I suspect you're enjoying it, too."

Harriet didn't answer. But she didn't need to. "We should do this again," Balthasar offered.

Harriet took another drink. "We'll see if you're still saying that once the Games are over."

Balthasar shrugged. "Fair point. Maybe Septimus will want to mentor."

Harriet gave his shoulder a good-natured punch. "Or maybe Naella will."

Balthasar smiled. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He could finally see a little.

Domingo clenched his teeth as he slowly got to his feet. His whole body ached – his legs most of all. He had landed awkwardly, but nothing seemed to be broken. And he was alive. For now, that was all that mattered.

And now light was beginning to filter down from above, along with the rain. He had spent the night waiting in the dark, afraid to venture farther down the tunnel. Afraid that he wouldn't be able to find his way back. Afraid of what might be lurking in the dark.

But he couldn't stay here forever. And he couldn't climb back up. Now, in the light, he could see the rope he had used to climb down, still swaying in the rain, about five feet above his head. But even if he could reach it, would he really have the strength to climb back up? And even if he could, what good would it do? No, he had come down here for a reason.

Now he just had to figure out what that reason was.

Carefully, Domingo tucked his knife back into his pocket and glanced around. Now that he had a little more light, he could see that there was really only one way to go. Keeping one hand on the wall of the tunnel, he ventured a little farther. Then a little more.

Suddenly, he heard something up ahead. Some sort of hum – a hum that almost sounded mechanical. Slowly, he took another step forward. Then another. Suddenly, the dirt beneath his feet gave way to something harder. Domingo bent down, brushing his hand against it. It was cold and hard, and definitely not rock. Some kind of metal, he realized.

Then the lights came on.

Domingo blinked, blinded at first by the sudden light. The lights weren't particularly bright, but, after complete darkness during the night and only the dim light filtering down into the tunnels, any light at all was jarring. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, and he could see the rest of the room. For a room was, in fact, what it was – a large, open room, with a domed ceiling and several doors that seemed to lead elsewhere.

Domingo stared. Then he laughed. For a long time, he simply stood there, laughing at his good luck. He explored one room, then another. The main room held a table, some chairs, and several couches. One of the side rooms appeared to be a kitchen, another a bedroom. Venturing farther into the bedroom, he found a closet stocked with identical khaki jumpsuits. Without hesitating, Domingo changed out of his sopping wet outfit.

Dry clothes had never felt so good.

Grinning, he headed back to the kitchen and started digging through the cupboards. Bread. Crackers. Dried meat. Domingo grinned and ate as much as he could. There didn't appear to be any water, but he could always go back to the entrance to the tunnel to collect rainwater. Aside from that, everything he could ask for seemed to have been provided for him.

So what was the catch?

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

"There has to be a catch."

Barry slowly felt his way around the room one more time. The darkness was absolute – and had been ever since the door had shut behind them. As far as he could tell, the inside of the statue's foot was a single room. No doors leading elsewhere except for the one they had used to enter. No other rooms. Nothing.

So why were they still here?

Why would Brennan lead them here? Why would the Gamemakers lead them here? What was the point of locking them in a room that, as far as he could tell, was completely empty? There had to be a reason. They couldn't simply intend for the two of them to starve to death in here.

Could they?

No. No, that wouldn't be interesting – just watching a pair of tributes starve to death. And why would the Gamemakers want them dead? They had already killed another tribute, after all. The Gamemakers had no reason to target them.

So what was the catch?

"What are we missing?" Barry asked, pacing a little.

"We're not missing anything," Eleanor grumbled. "It's a big, empty room. That's it." He couldn't see her face, but he could imagine the scowl. There was a part of him that didn't blame her. They'd been here for hours – maybe longer – with absolutely nothing to show for it. They'd heard cannons and the Capitol anthem since entering the statue, but had no way of knowing which faces had been shown in the sky.

No way of knowing who was left.

"At least we're safe," Barry offered. But 'safe' wasn't going to cut it forever. They had no food. Without access to the rain, they didn't have any water. How long would they last in here?

"What lies in the shadow of the statue?" Barry muttered. It had to mean something. Brennan had brought them here for a reason. "_In_ the shadow of the statue. In the _shadow _of the statue."

"What _lies _in the shadow of the statue!" Eleanor's voice echoed through the room. "That's it! Barry, lie down."

"What?"

"You've been pacing around ever since we got here. Just … lie down for a moment."

"Why?"

"Because I think it's a riddle. Maybe if we lie down – if we _lie _in the shadow of the statue – something will happen."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Eleanor admitted. "But it's worth a try. And where's the harm?"

She had a point. Barry quickly lay down. Immediately, light flooded the room – some sort of light coming from high above them, inside the upper part of the statue. Eleanor burst out laughing, and Barry couldn't help joining her. Cautiously, the two of them stood up. But the lights stayed on.

And then he saw it.

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

Then she saw it.

The room was bigger than she and Barry had initially assumed. A few jars stood in one corner, and some sort of spinning wheel was in another. A tapestry hung on a loom near the spinning wheel. But that wasn't what she and Barry were both staring at. In the center of the room was a hole, and a steady stream of black smoke was slowly emerging from the hole, filling the room.

Slowly, she and Barry backed towards the corner with the jars in it. "Water," Barry whispered. "Maybe we can put it out."

Eleanor shook her head. "I don't see a fire. It's just smoke."

"Maybe the fire's inside the hole," Barry offered. "It's worth a try. Help me lift one."

Eleanor hesitated, but then followed his lead. Together, they lifted one of the larger jugs and carried it over to the hole. The smoke was thicker, but the air didn't seem any hotter. If anything, the smoke seemed to make the air a bit chillier. "One," Barry grunted. "Two. Three."

Together, they tipped the jug over, dumping water down the hole. A strange, screeching noise filled the air, and the smoke began to disappear. Barry and Eleanor backed up into the corner, watching. Soon, the room was clear.

Barry inched closer to the hole. "If the smoke was coming from down there, maybe we should go that way. Maybe there's some sort of path that leads out of here."

Eleanor peeked over the edge of the hole. A few feet down, the tunnel curved sharply off to one side. "You want to go down _there_?"

Barry shrugged. "The only other door's closed. This is probably the only other way out. There's no food in here; we'll have to leave eventually. Might as well be now, before we start to go hungry."

Maybe he had a point. But he still seemed a bit to eager to go venturing down a tunnel in absolute darkness. "What if we get lost?"

Barry glanced over at the spinning wheel and the tapestry on the loom. "The thread. We can unravel the tapestry, use the thread to find our way – and follow it back if we get lost. And look." He pulled the needle from the spinning wheel. "Not a bad weapon, in a pinch."

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. "Against another tribute or a freak column of smoke?"

Barry smirked. "I think the column of smoke was a test – and I think we passed. And I think this—" he gestured towards the tunnel, "—is our reward."

"Crawling through a pitch black tunnel is a reward?"

"Well, if you'd rather stay here…"

"No." Eleanor shook her head immediately. She would rather have stayed, of course, but not without him. And he was right; they had no other way out. "You're right. Let's unravel the tapestry first, though. So we can find our way back."

So they could find their way back. Eleanor helped Barry pull the tapestry off the loom, and the two of them started unraveling the thread. But, deep down, she knew. They both did. Once they started down that tunnel, they wouldn't be able to just come back.

They had to keep moving forward.

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

They had to keep moving.

Philus gripped Melody's hand tightly as the two of them set out again. According to Melody, there had been five cannons during the night. Five more tributes dead.

And somehow they were still alive.

But not for long, if someone found them. They'd managed to find a few berries as they made their way through the jungle, but nothing substantial. They were both hungry. Both tired. If someone found them, they wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight.

Just like Elani and Pan.

_Stop it._

Philus swallowed hard, trying to block out the memories. Elani and Pan were gone; their faces in the sky the night before had confirmed it. They were gone, and he was still alive.

In fact, he was lucky. Lucky that he had gotten away. Lucky that Melody had found him.

Lucky that she hadn't killed him.

He hadn't even hesitated last night, when she'd offered to let him get some sleep while he kept watch. He hadn't even given any thought to the idea that she might kill him as he slept. If she'd wanted to kill him, she would have done it by now.

Instead, she'd been nothing but friendly. Nothing but kind. Philus held her hand tightly as the two of them trekked onwards through the jungle. Maybe he, Elani, and Pan had been wrong to keep to themselves during training. Maybe they _should _have looked for other allies.

Maybe Elani and Pan would still be alive.

Suddenly, Melody's grip on Philus' hand tightened. Philus glanced up, but Melody seemed frozen in place. Philus gave her hand a tug, and she pointed. Philus couldn't see anything, but Melody quickly ducked behind a large tree. Philus followed, his eyes fixed on where Melody had been pointing. Had she heard something?

Then he could see it – a slight movement among the trees. Philus glanced up at Melody. Should they run? Running had saved him last time. But maybe the other tribute didn't even know they were there. If they ran, they would give away their position. But did they really stand any chance in a fight?

Maybe. There were two of them, after all. But they had no weapons. No supplies. Nothing another tribute would want to take. If they ran, would the other tribute even chase them? Or would chasing them be more trouble than it was worth?

Before he could make a decision, however, the other tribute came into view. It was a boy – one of the boys from Eight, he was pretty sure. In fact…

Just then, Melody stepped out from behind the tree, waving her arms. The boy turned. Grinned. Ran towards both of them. Philus smiled a little, relieved. So _that _was why the boy had looked familiar.

He was her ally.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

"Baylor! Over here!"

Even as she shouted the words, Melody still couldn't quite believe it. He had found her. Immediately, Baylor turned and ran towards her, wrapping her in a hug as soon as he reached her. His clothes were dirty and wet, his hair muddy and mussed, but he was alive.

And he had found her.

"How…?" she managed to ask amid laughs.

Baylor held out a small compass. "The sponsors sent me this. It points towards you. Look!" He held it out to her. Sure enough, it pointed directly towards her – even when she moved to the left a little, then to the right.

Then she realized. "Sponsors? They sent you something?"

Baylor nodded. "After I—" he started, but then stopped himself. "It's not important."

Melody took a step back. "After you … what?"

Baylor looked down. "I…" He hesitated, but then finished. "I killed a girl. She attacked me, and I … I fought her off. So they sent me this."

Melody nodded. "I'm glad."

Baylor cocked an eyebrow. "Glad?"

"That they sent you the compass. Otherwise, you wouldn't have found us."

"Us?"

Melody nodded, motioning to Philus, who was still standing behind the tree. Slowly, he took a step forward, then another. Melody made sure Philus was looking at her, then continued. "Philus, this is Baylor. Baylor, Philus."

Baylor nodded, but he couldn't hide the doubt on his face. Melody tensed as the two of them shook hands. Baylor had killed a girl. She'd had the chance to kill Philus, but she'd offered him an alliance, instead, without thinking twice about whether or not Baylor would want him as an ally. Would he even want _her _as an ally anymore?

_Stop it. _Baylor wouldn't have been walking all the way across the island to find her if he didn't want her as an ally. And Philus – well, maybe he didn't look all that intimidating, but neither did she. And neither did Baylor. But the three of them, together – at least they had some strength in numbers.

That had to count for something.

"Where did the other hovercraft land?" Baylor asked.

Melody pointed. "Near the shore, that way. I'm not sure exactly how far, but I've been walking for two days. How about you?"

"Two days, that way." He pointed the opposite direction. "Have you seen any other tributes? Besides Philus, I mean."

Melody shook her head. "Not since the bloodbath. You?"

"Not since the first day. I've been lucky."

Melody nodded. "So have I."

She just hoped that luck would hold.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15  
****District Seven**

She just hoped their luck would hold.

Fallon rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she and Elizabet trudged forward along the shore. There had been five cannons during the night. Five. Five more tributes were dead.

And they were still alive.

And not just alive – completely unharmed. They hadn't even seen anyone since the first day. Nineteen tributes were gone, and they were still here. Alive and well.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe they had simply run the right direction from the bloodbath. Maybe there was no one else in the area. That was the only real explanation: luck. The Gamemakers had no reason to favor them. No reason to spare them.

But they also had no reason to target them.

Fallon cracked another mussel along the rocks as they walked, eating the slimy creature inside without any hesitation. "They're really not so bad once you get used to them." She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince, though – herself, Elizabet, or her family. Maybe if they didn't think the Games were that bad, they wouldn't worry so much.

And, so far, they hadn't been _that _bad. She was cold and wet, but she wasn't hungry. Wasn't thirsty. Wasn't injured. So far, things were going pretty well.

Suddenly, Elizabet pointed up ahead. "Look! There's a building!"

Fallon peered through the rain as well as she could. It certainly looked as though Elizabet was right. There was some sort of building up ahead by the water – a small shack, from the look of it. Fallon grinned. Right now, the building meant only one thing: shelter from the rain that had been pounding them non-stop for the past two days. "Let's go have a look!"

But, even as she started forward, Elizabet grabbed her arm. "What if there's someone there?"

"What if there's _not_?" Fallon countered. "We didn't see anyone running this way. What if we're the first to get this far? We should at least go have a look. If it looks like someone's there already, we can just leave – no harm done. Right?"

Elizabet still looked hesitant. Fallon sighed. "All right, then. _I'll _go check it out. If it looks okay, I'll give you a wave, and you can come, too. Deal?"

Reluctantly, Elizabet nodded. "All right. Just … just be careful."

Fallon nodded and hurried towards the shack, watching the ground as she went. No footprints. Not that there would be – not with all this rain. Still, the shack appeared to be empty as she crept closer. Closer. Finally, she peeked her head inside. Nothing. No one. She grinned and waved to Elizabet, who quickly joined her inside.

"It's perfect!" Fallon announced. "And look!" Hanging on the wall were a pair of knives. A barrel stood in the corner – a barrel full of what appeared to be dried fish. But Fallon's attention was on the knives. "Here." She pulled the pair of them down off the wall. "Take one. That way, if anyone comes, we can … well, defend ourselves."

_Defend ourselves. _They could kill them. Because that was what knives were for in the Games, after all. The Gamemakers hadn't supplied them with weapons so that they could slice the dried fish. It was only a matter of time before someone else discovered their perfect hiding place.

And they would have to be ready.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

They should have been ready.

Adelia swallowed hard, trying to force down some fruit while Myrah kept watch. Both Myrah and Evander had insisted they weren't hungry, but starving themselves wouldn't do any good. And it certainly wouldn't bring back their allies.

Nothing would. There was nothing they could do. Nothing they could have done.

Nothing that could have prepared them.

Still, Adelia couldn't shake the feeling that she hadn't done enough. That there must have been _something_. Some way she could have saved them. Jediah. Nadine.

"They warned us," Evander said at last, quietly, giving voice to her doubts. "The two girls who … the girls we killed. They told us the Careers were coming. They offered to help us."

"And you think we should have listened," Adelia finished.

"They were obviously telling the truth. Maybe if we'd made it out of the house a little earlier, maybe if the Careers had seen that there were more of us—"

"Maybe," Adelia agreed. "And maybe they would have stabbed us in the back the minute we were distracted by the Careers."

"They had _hammers_. They didn't even have any real weapons."

"Which is why they would have been no use against the Careers," Adelia pointed out. "You can't have it both ways. If they could have helped, then they could have been a threat, too. What do you think would have happened? Not what you _wish _would have happened. What do you honestly think would have happened if we had rushed out there? Do you _really _think the Careers would have just run away? Do you really think the Gamemakers would have let them leave without a fight? The Capitol wanted blood."

_And they got it. _But they had gotten the wrong blood. Jediah. Nadine. It shouldn't have been them. She wasn't sure who it should have been, but … not them. Aleron, maybe. He had abandoned them twice now; maybe he deserved it.

Adelia shook her head. Not really. He didn't really deserve it. He had been scared. It was hard to blame him for that. And the truth was, none of them deserved it. No one in the arena deserved what was happening. Even Ivira. She had been so scared at the end. The fear in her eyes – it had almost been enough to make Adelia think twice.

Almost.

But if one of them had to die … well, better Ivira than her. Better Presley than Evander. And if Jediah and Nadine had to die, then at least they had gone quickly. Protecting their allies. It was what they would have wanted.

But it wasn't what she wanted.

She hadn't been certain, until a few hours ago. Hadn't been certain how she would respond to a fight, if it ever came to one. But now she knew. Now she was certain. She didn't want to die defending her allies. She wouldn't want to die for Myrah, or Evander, or even Jediah. She didn't want to die for any of them. And she _wouldn't _die for any of them.

She was going to live.

* * *

**Horatio Connors, 15  
****District Three**

He was going to go crazy in here.

Horatio drummed his fingers on the floor of the cave. "How long do you plan on staying here?" He had assumed, when he had joined Beckett, that they would stay in the cave for a little while before moving on. But Beckett seemed content to stay put indefinitely.

Beckett shrugged. "As long as I can. Why? Do you have an appointment?"

"No, it's just…" He couldn't place it, but staying put any longer felt wrong. There had been nineteen cannons so far. The Games were moving along much more quickly than he'd expected. And they were still sitting safely in their cave. "It just feels like we should be doing something."

"We are doing something," Beckett reasoned. "We're surviving. And thanks to this garden you found, we have enough supplies to survive her for quite a while. It's a good vantage point; we'll be able to see if anyone's approaching."

Horatio shook his head. "Do you know how many people have won the Games by staying in the same spot the entire time?"

Beckett leaned back against the wall. "One or two come to mind. Your mentor, for starters—"

"One or two. Out of forty-one. We shouldn't stay here."

"We shouldn't stay here _forever_," Beckett countered. "Just until we have a good reason to leave."

Horatio shook his head. "And if I think we have a good reason to leave now?"

Beckett shrugged. "The door's right there." He gestured to the mouth of the cave. "I'm not keeping you."

Horatio hesitated. Beckett was right. Neither of them had sought out this alliance; they had simply been seeking shelter in the same place. "All right, then," Horatio said, trying to sound confident as he headed for the mouth of the cave. "Thanks for the shelter."

Beckett nodded awkwardly. "Thanks for the food."

Horatio nodded back and stepped out into the rain. Slowly, he began making his way back down the slope. Just as he reached the bottom, though, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something white and almost … furry. Horatio pulled his trowel from his pocket. "Who's there?"

But there was no answer. Nothing but a blur of fur and teeth as some sort of mutt sprang from behind the trees, its teeth and claws bared. Terrified, Horatio turned to run, but the mutt was too quick. No sooner had he turned to run than one large paw swiped against his legs, knocking him to the ground.

Claws dug into his skin as the mutt's face came hurtling down towards him. Horatio swung his trowel, but it did no good. The mutt's teeth closed around his neck. Blood. So much blood. Horatio's body went limp as the blood continued to flow, and the mutt's jaws clenched around his neck once more. Horatio gasped one last time, struggling for words that never came.

What had he done wrong?

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

What had Horatio done wrong?

Beckett stared, horrified, as Horatio's cannon sounded. Horatio's screams had brought Beckett to the entrance of the cave to see what was happening, but the attack was over in a matter of seconds. Too quickly for Beckett to do anything but watch as the huge, white bear ripped out his ally's throat.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the bear simply waddled off into the jungle, the white fur around its jaws stained red with Horatio's blood. Beckett waited a moment. Then another. Once it was clear the bear wasn't coming back, he slowly made his way down the slope.

Beckett's stomach gave a lurch as he approached the body. Still, he clenched his teeth and took a step closer. Then another. There was blood everywhere. Terror filled Horatio's lifeless eyes. His right hand still gripped his garden trowel, but, even if he'd managed to hit the bear, he'd never had a chance.

Slowly, Beckett knelt and removed the trowel from his ally's hand. A quick search of Horatio's pockets yielded some radishes and turnips, but nothing more. He hadn't been hiding anything. He had never been a threat.

So why had the Gamemakers killed him?

Beckett shook his head. It didn't seem fair. Horatio had been the one suggesting that they _do _something. If anything, it would have made sense for the Gamemakers to target Beckett, who had wanted to stay safely in his cave. Horatio had been uneasy. Restless. Something the Gamemakers could have used.

Beckett carefully closed Horatio's eyes. It could just as easily have been him lying there. Maybe it _should _have been him. But it wasn't. Horatio was dead. And he was still alive. It didn't make sense. But he was grateful, nonetheless.

He still had a chance.

"Okay," Beckett muttered as he turned away from the body, his pockets stuffed full of his ally's food. "Okay, I get the point. Time to get moving." But where? "Not the way the bear went," he concluded.

Bears in the jungle. He was pretty sure bears weren't supposed to live in jungles. Not that there were many jungles in District Ten. Or bears, for that matter. But the mutt still seemed out of place, somehow.

Beckett shook the thought from his head. It didn't matter right now whether the bear was supposed to be there. It was there, and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible. The bear's tracks, almost completely washed away by the rain already, led off to the right, so Beckett turned to the left. Farther inland. Maybe that was what the Gamemakers wanted.

So that was what they would get.

Beckett trudged on, shivering in the rain. The cave hadn't been much, but it had been dry. It had been a little bit of shelter.

He could always come back at night, of course. At least, that was what he told himself. He could always go back. The cave would still be there. But he already knew, deep down, that if the Gamemakers wanted him inland, away from the caves, then that was where he would have to stay.

There was no going back.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

There was no going back now.

Imalia glanced around at her allies as Jarlan repeated her words. "You think we should split up?"

Imalia nodded decisively, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. "Yes. We'll cover more ground that way. We split up, hunt for tributes, and meet back here in a few hours. We still have plenty of time before nightfall. The best way to use it is to spread out, search more places."

"I think she's right." Delvin. Good. So he was still with her. "I mean, look at the five of us. We're making such a racket, any tribute within half a mile will be able to hear us coming. If we split up, we might be able to catch them by surprise."

"All right," Jarlan agreed reluctantly. "I'll lead a group; you lead the other, Imalia."

_Perfect_. "Sounds good to me," Imalia nodded.

"I'll go with Jarlan," Delvin offered, and Jarlan agreed easily. Jarlan had spared the boy's life; of course he would want to stay close to him. Jarlan would never suspect there was another reason.

"I'm with Imalia." Indira's readiness caught Imalia off-guard. Why was she so eager to stay with her? Was Jarlan plotting something, as well? Had he given Indira the same instruction she had given Delvin?

_Stop it_. This was no time for paranoia. Chances were, Indira simply wanted to stay with the better fighter – the one who had already proven that she was willing to kill. That was all. It shouldn't take Shale long to decide the same thing…

"I'll go with Jarlan."

_Damn._

Imalia's mind raced. Why would Shale want to go with Jarlan? Was it because she had killed his district partners? Or had he seen the groups splitting up boys-and-girls and figured he wouldn't be welcome with her and Indira? Was there anything she could say to change his mind without making Jarlan suspicious?

And what about Delvin? She had told him to kill Jarlan, but what about Shale? If Delvin made a move against Jarlan, what would Shale do? He had no particular reason to defend Jarlan, but he didn't exactly have any reason to side with Delvin, either.

But there was nothing she could say. Jarlan, Delvin, and Shale were already heading off into the jungle. Indira shrugged. "Looks like it's you and me, then."

Imalia nodded. "Looks like." It was too late now. Too late to say anything. Delvin would simply have to figure this out on his own. Imalia fingered her crowbar as she watched the trio of boys disappear into the trees.

It was up to Delvin now.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

It was up to them now.

Naella stretched a little as she and Jaime made their way out of the cave. After a night's rest, both of them were pretty well recovered from their bout with Inviticus. The body was gone, leaving only blood stains on the ground as a reminder of the fight. And it wasn't a reminder she intended to stay anywhere near.

They had to keep moving, of course. So far, between the two of them, their only kills had been members of their own alliance. Auster. Now Inviticus. And while they'd certainly succeeded in eliminating two of the stronger tributes in the arena, preying only on their own allies wouldn't look too good to the sponsors.

Especially now that there were only two of them left.

"Which way?" Naella asked as she followed Jaime out of the cave. There were only three options, really – either forward along the shore, inland, or back the way they had come. Right now, one way was probably as good as another.

Jaime glanced around for a moment before something caught her eye. "Can you swim?"

Naella cocked an eyebrow. Of course she could swim. Swimming had been a mandatory part of Career training ever since the 36th Games, when the arena had been a single animal-filled ark that had eventually crashed into a series of rocks, leaving the remaining tributes to swim for their lives. So while she probably couldn't keep up with any of District Four's tributes in the water, she could still swim fairly well. "Of course I can swim," she shrugged. "Why?"

Jaime pointed. Further up ahead, the shore curved inland, then jutted back out again. At the end of the outcropping, there was some sort of building. "Looks like a pretty good hiding place," Jaime observed. "We could keep going along the shore, but if we approach from the water, there's less of a chance that any tributes there will see us coming."

Naella nodded. That made sense. But, as they approached the water, she wasn't nearly as sure. The trainers at the academy did their best to simulate the effects of swimming in the rain or even in a storm, but the waves looked much more intimidating in real life. And what about lightning? She hadn't seen any for a while, but if the storm picked up again suddenly…

Naella shook the thought from her head. They wouldn't be in any more danger in the water than they would be on land. The rain, the lightning, the storm – the Gamemakers controlled all of it. If they wanted a tribute to be struck by lightning, it would happen no matter where that tribute was. If they wanted a tribute to be relatively safe from the storm, they could control that, too – even in the open water.

Jaime began to wade into the water, and Naella followed. They were safe. As long as they were keeping the audience entertained, they were safe. In fact, this was probably more interesting – and therefore safer – than if they had decided to follow the shoreline. Yes. This was a much better idea.

This was the right choice.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

He'd made the right choice.

Shale gripped his knife as he followed Jarlan and Delvin into the jungle. It hadn't been a hard choice at all, really – deciding to go with them rather than Imalia and Indira. Imalia had been jumpy ever since they'd returned from the cabin, and their inability to find it again had really shaken her. She was losing it. It was only a matter of time before she snapped.

And he didn't want to be anywhere near her when that happened.

She had already proven what she was capable of, after all. She hadn't hesitated for a moment when she'd gone after Elani and Pan. If she decided he was the next target, there would be nothing to stop her. Nothing except the knife she'd given him. And him with a knife against a Career with a crowbar was not a fight he wanted. He'd had the chance before and hadn't taken it. He certainly wouldn't want to let her strike first.

Jarlan, on the other hand, was as even-keeled as ever now that they were a good distance away from his district partner. He and Delvin were chatting, apparently not terribly concerned about the fact that other tributes might hear them. Which was a bit odd, since Delvin had been the one to suggest that splitting up might give them a little more stealth. Had he simply been looking for an excuse to get away from Imalia?

But Imalia had been the one who suggested splitting up in the first place.

Shale shook his head. They all had their own plans, he was sure. Their own reasons for wanting to split up. He just had to make sure he didn't get caught in the middle of those plans.

Suddenly, a soft pinging noise amid the rain brought them to a halt. Shale glanced up. A parachute came drifting down through the trees and landed at his feet. The package was small, with an "11" embroidered on the cloth. Shale unwrapped it, revealing a single key, old and rusty.

Shale turned the key over in his hands as Delvin and Jarlan gathered closer to look. Why would the sponsors send him a key? Why would the sponsors send _him _anything? He hadn't done anything particularly noteworthy so far – nothing except watch while Imalia killed two of his district partners.

And he had chosen to go with Jarlan instead of Imalia. Were they rewarding him for that choice? Was this Elijah's way of letting him know that he had made the right move? Or was it a warning? If Elijah was sending him a sponsor gift now, it might be because he would need it soon.

But why would he need a key?

"Maybe it opens something," Delvin suggested.

_Obviously. _But they hadn't come across anything that needed opening. And what were they going to find in the middle of a jungle that needed a key?

"Maybe there's something in there," Jarlan suggested, pointing. Shale looked. Amid the rain, he could barely see what Jarlan was pointing at, but, as they ventured closer, he could see the outline of something large. Something dark. The three of them drew closer. Closer. It almost looked like…

"It's a ship." Jarlan was almost laughing. "A ship. In the middle of the jungle."

Shale blinked. It sounded ridiculous. But Jarlan was right. The ship was damaged and rotting, but still recognizable. Jarlan smiled. "Let's check it out."

Shale hesitated, but followed Delvin and Jarlan. Inside, the ship was mostly bare, aside from a few oars and several chains attached to the sides of the ship. And a small chest in one corner. A chest with a lock.

A lock that needed a key.

Shale motioned Jarlan and Delvin over, then knelt to unlock the chest. Inside was a collection of long, thin cylinders – each a rusty, reddish color, each with a small length of wire protruding from the end. Some sort of foam-like gel seemed to be oozing from the cylinders.

Delvin took a step back. "Dynamite. I've seen it used to demolish old buildings. Be careful; I don't think it's supposed to leak like that."

Shale nodded, replaced the cover on the chest, and locked it again. "Why would the Gamemakers want us to find this?"

Jarlan shook his head. "There's only one reason. It's a warning – a warning that we're not alone. Someone else is coming this way." He picked up one of the oars.

"And we'll have to be ready."

* * *

**Elijah Whitaker  
****District Eleven Mentor**

They were as ready as they could be.

Elijah drummed his fingers on the table as Jarlan, Delvin, and Shale quickly rearranged the contents of the ship. Carefully, they slid the chest of dynamite into a dark corner, hoping that no one else would find it there. Each of them claimed an oar, which, along with Shale's knife, left them fairly well-armed. Shale tucked the key to the chest in his pocket for safekeeping.

"I don't know what good the dynamite's going to do them," Tamsin commented. "Even if they wanted to use it to set up some sort of trap, anything that's not going to go off right away would require some sort of fuse. They'd never get it to light in this rain."

Elijah shrugged. "I didn't know what was in the chest. I was just hoping that they would realize a sponsor gift meant they needed to be ready for a fight – and that it would be enough to convince Delvin not to make a move against Jarlan – at least not yet. The dynamite was just an extra bonus."

Tamsin shook her head. "Nothing in the Games is ever just an extra bonus. The dynamite's there for a reason."

Elijah leaned back in his chair. "Do tell."

Tamsin sighed impatiently. "I didn't say I knew what the reason _was_. But the Gamemakers would never leave something like that lying around without a reason."

"Just like there was a reason for the polar bear?" Elijah asked skeptically.

Tamsin shrugged. "It got Beckett moving, didn't it?"

"Horatio was already moving. Why didn't it just go eat Beckett?"

"Maybe Horatio smelled tastier. I don't know." She shook her head. "My point is, if there's dynamite in that ship, eventually it'll go off. If there's a strange column of smoke, eventually it's going to attack someone. If there's a tunnel down into the ground, eventually it'll lead somewhere. There are no dead ends. There are no loose threads. Not if the Gamemakers can help it – and they usually can."

Elijah nodded. She was probably right. Eventually, the dynamite would be useful. Eventually, it would go off. Eventually, the compass that Septimus' alliance was following would lead them to Delvin – and Jarlan and Shale in the process. Eventually, everything would start to come together.

And he had a feeling they wouldn't have to wait long.

* * *

"_Look, all I'm saying is, if we're stuck here, then just surviving's not going to cut it. … Or else we're just going to go crazy waiting for the next bad thing to happen."_


	40. Capable

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yep, quick update. That might happen a bit more often now because of NaNoWriMo.

Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final five" poll if you haven't already.

* * *

**Day Three  
****Capable**

* * *

**Miriam Valence  
****District Three Mentor**

Nothing ever seemed to work out quite the way anyone expected.

Miriam wrapped an arm around Avery as the hovercraft came to retrieve Horatio's body. There were tears in Avery's eyes, just as there had been when India died. But Miriam knew that the worst was yet to come. If Evander died…

Miriam shook the thought from her head. She couldn't worry about that. Not yet. For now, Evander was safe. He and his allies were safe inside the barracks, and the only tributes in the area – Aleron and Brevin – were running the other way. He and Adelia had just killed a pair of tributes. Maybe the Gamemakers would leave them alone for a while.

Maybe.

But not forever. Eventually, someone else would find them. Or something would force them to leave. They couldn't stay safely tucked away in one of those houses forever.

"Not the two you would have expected to make it this far," Percival noted, voicing Miriam's thoughts. If someone had told her at the reaping that, with nearly half the tributes gone, Aleron and Evander would be the ones alive, and India and Horatio would be gone, she would've had her doubts. Horatio had seemed to have the brains to make it far, while India had the brawn and the guts to do what had to be done.

And yet they were gone. And Evander and Aleron were still alive.

Miriam shook her head. How many people would have guessed, nearly thirty years ago at her own reaping, that she would be the one sitting here, alive? Or what about Avery? How many people would have predicted that the little girl from Three would end up as one of the youngest Victors ever?

"Sometimes it's just luck," Miriam said quietly. "Sometimes there's no rhyme or reason to it. Why did the smoke go after India? Why did the polar bear choose Horatio? Maybe there's not a reason for it."

Or maybe there _was._ Of the tributes who had been attacked by mutts so far, both were from District Three. Could that really be a coincidence? Or was it some sort of retribution for what had happened last year?

But, if so, then why only District Three? And why not the replacement tributes? Why Horatio and India, but not Aleron and Evander? What made them different?

Miriam took another drink. Chances were, there wasn't any pattern at all. Targeting only District Three made no sense. Their tributes had participated in the rebellion last year, but so had tributes from most of the districts. The Gamemakers didn't seem to be targeting anyone else.

Not yet.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

"Not yet."

Barry sighed as Eleanor finished unraveling the last of the tapestry. They had more thread now than they could possibly need down in the tunnels. She was stalling, and they both knew it.

But she couldn't stall much longer.

"I just want to make sure we don't get lost down there," Eleanor insisted.

Barry rolled his eyes. "You've got enough thread there to stretch all the way back to the Capitol. We won't get lost. Come _on_."

Barry headed for the hole in the floor. _No more waiting_. Without another word, he climbed down into the tunnel. "Are you coming or not?"

Eleanor hesitated, but then followed him down, carrying a long tangle of thread. She must have tied the end to something, because it grew taut as they ventured a little farther down the tunnel. Barry smiled as Eleanor let out a little thread. "See? Nothing to it."

"But where does it lead?" Eleanor asked nervously as they plunged farther into the darkness, the light from the statue dimming behind them.

Barry took her hand as the darkness grew deeper. Better not to lose each other. "Who knows? Where do you think it leads? If it could lead anywhere in Panem, where would you want it to go?"

"I … I don't know."

_Come on, just say something. _"Well, I'd like it to go back to the Capitol. All that food. All those parties. What was your favorite part?" Barry asked, trying to sound cheerful. Truthfully, though, he would much rather have the tunnel lead back to District Twelve. Back to his parents. His friends.

Or maybe – although he didn't dare say it – maybe it would be even better if it led out of Panem altogether. Somewhere safe – safe from the Capitol, the Peacekeepers, the Games. He had sometimes wondered what was out there, beyond the fences, beyond the borders of Panem. Maybe even beyond the oceans. Were there other countries out there? Were there other districts – districts that didn't live in fear of their children being stolen away to fight for their lives every year?

Probably not. If there were other countries, they were probably just like Panem. Why should they be any different? People were people everywhere, after all. Maybe it was just fate that those in power always took advantage of those less well off. Maybe that was just human nature.

Barry shook his head, glad he hadn't said any of it aloud. Because if he had, the Gamemakers would probably make the tunnels cave in on them or something. No, it was better not to think like that at all. Then there was no risk of those thoughts making their way to the surface.

"I liked the noise," Eleanor said quietly.

Barry had almost forgotten the question. "What?"

"You asked what I liked best about the Capitol. I liked the sounds. It's always so quiet in my house. It's so quiet here, underground. But the Capitol seemed so busy, so full of life. There was so much to do. I just hope … I hope one day I can get back there and see some more."

_I hope so, too, _Barry almost said. But he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't hope that Eleanor would make it back. Because that would mean he had to die. Only one of them could make it back to the Capitol, to District Twelve, to their family.

And now more than ever, he wanted it to be him.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

She was starting to wish she hadn't suggested swimming.

Jaime took another deep breath as she struggled against the waves. She could barely see Naella beside her, battling against the same current. But she could also see the shore. Just a little farther.

_Just a little farther._

Finally, she could feel sand beneath her. Slowly, Jaime stood up, her legs wobbly. Stupid. Swimming had been a stupid idea. They should have walked. It might have taken a little longer, but by the time they got their bearings back…

Soon, Naella was beside her, breathing hard, but safe. Safe from the waves, at least. If there were, in fact, any tributes in the building nearby, they would have the upper hand. She and Naella were exhausted.

But they couldn't afford to rest – not here. Not yet. Not out in the open where they would be easy targets.

Targets. Jaime clenched her fists. They were Careers. They were supposed to be targeting other tributes, not worrying about becoming targets themselves. But there were only two of them left. They had to be careful.

But they also had to get to safety.

"Let's go," Jaime insisted, pointing towards the building. Slowly, Naella followed. Together, they crept closer and closer to the building. Now that they were closer, she could see just how tall it was. A building this tall, this close to the shore. "I think it's a lighthouse," Jaime realized.

Naella nodded her agreement. Not that it mattered much. It was shelter, and that was the important thing. Together, the two of them staggered through the door. Jaime looked around, but, as far as she could tell, it was empty.

Maybe that was for the best.

Exhausted, the pair of them collapsed by the door. "Let's not do that again," Naella suggested.

Jaime clenched her teeth. Sure, it had been a stupid idea, but did Naella have to rub it in? "What's the matter? A little swim tire you out?"

Naella rolled her eyes. "We're just lucky there weren't any tributes here. They would have knocked you right over."

"Me? What about you?" Jaime glared. "A few more seconds in the water, and you would have been history."

"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you. Or maybe you would have done it yourself – gotten rid of me, just like Auster and Inviticus."

"Oh, like you didn't help—"

Naella shook her head. "All right. All right. I'm just glad we made it."

Jaime nodded. "Me, too."

But a part of her was starting to wish that Naella hadn't.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

A part of her was starting to wish she had gone with Jarlan.

Indira shook her head. "You said we should all met back in a few hours. It's been…" Indira hesitated. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but surely it had been at least an hour or two. "Long enough," she decided. "Don't you think we should go back?"

"Not yet," Imalia repeated. "We're close to something. Some_one_. I can feel it."

Indira shook her head. Did Imalia really feel something? Or maybe hear or see something that Indira couldn't? Or was she stalling? Trying to find a reason not to turn around?

But why wouldn't she want to go back? She and Jarlan had been arguing, sure, but if she'd wanted to simply leave them, why wouldn't she have just said so? And why wouldn't she have asked Shale to come, too? Leaving Delvin with Jarlan would make sense; Imalia hadn't seemed to want him as an ally in the first place. But Shale…

She couldn't just leave him.

Indira clenched her fists. "You keep going if you want to. I'm going back."

Imalia turned, surprised, her crowbar gripped tightly in her hand. For a moment, Indira thought she might use it. But, before she had a chance, there was another noise. Some sort of rustling noise in the woods.

Imalia held a finger to her lips. Indira nodded. Maybe she had been right. Maybe there _was _someone nearby.

Just then, something burst out of the jungle. Something that looked a lot like a pig – but larger, with longer tusks. Indira stepped back in surprise, but Imalia took a step forward, her crowbar raised. The pig charged. Imalia sidestepped in time to avoid its tusks and brought the crowbar down hard.

But then the pig turned – quicker than Indira had expected, given its bulk. As it charged again, Imalia didn't have time to dodge. One of the tusks sliced across her leg, just below the knee. Imalia cried out in pain but stood her ground, giving the pig's rump a good whack with her crowbar as it ran past.

The pig turned again, but, this time, Indira was at Imalia's side, waving her own branch at the pig. "Over here! Over here!" The pig charged towards Indira, but, as it did, Imalia dove on top of it, dropping her crowbar and wrapping both arms around its neck. The pig squealed and bucked, but Imalia didn't let go.

"Indira! Quick!" Imalia called. Immediately, Indira scooped up the crowbar and charged, striking the pig's head once, twice, then three times. The third time, the pig stopped struggling, and Indira drove the pronged end of the crowbar into its stomach. The pig thrashed for a moment but then went still.

Both Indira and Imalia fell back onto the ground, breathing hard. "Not bad," Imalia managed, gasping for breath.

Indira grinned. "Not bad yourself. How's your leg?"

Imalia glanced down at her leg, wincing at the blood. The pig's tusk had torn through the bandage that was already there, where the girl from Eleven had injured her. This cut was deeper. There was more blood. Quickly, Indira tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of her own outfit and wrapped it tightly around Imalia's leg.

Imalia pulled something from her pocket. "Here. The fabric the crowbar came in. Use that." Indira nodded and, soon, she had Imalia's leg tightly bandaged. Slowly, she stood up, then helped Imalia to her feet, as well. Imalia cringed as she tested her leg, but, using a nearby tree for support, she could at least stand on her own. Imalia smiled a little.

"Thank you."

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

"Thank you."

Imalia cringed as she shifted again, trying to keep her weight off her right leg. Still, she kept a smile on her face. She couldn't afford to let the audience – or Indira – see how badly she was hurt. What if she decided to take advantage of Imalia's injury – take her out while she had the chance?

Imalia shook the thought from her head. If Indira had wanted to kill her, she would have done it already. Certainly she would have done it before bandaging her wound. Indira had fought well. Maybe she had even saved Imalia's life.

Didn't that earn her a little trust?

"We should head back now," Indira suggested. "If you can walk—"

"I can walk!" Imalia snapped. Truthfully, she wasn't sure, but, leaning against the tree, she took one step. Then another.

"Do you need some help?" Indira asked.

Imalia clenched her teeth. _Yes_. Yes, she probably did. But she couldn't afford to say so. Instead, she shook her head and gestured towards the pig. "If you want to help, how about you bring that. If we can't return with any kills under our belts, at least we can return with supper."

Indira nodded, trying to figure out how best to transport the pig. It was too large for one person to lift, and Imalia wasn't going to be able to help her carry it. "Use one of those," Imalia suggested, pointing to one of the vines that was hanging from a nearby tree. "Wrap it around the pig and … well, drag it, I guess."

Indira nodded and did as she was told. Soon, they were ready to set off – Imalia limping from her wound, Indira dragging their fallen prey. It would be slow going, but maybe that was good. Maybe by the time they got back…

Imalia grasped her crowbar tightly, not sure what to hope for. That Jarlan, Delvin, and Shale would be back, too? That they wouldn't? That Delvin had killed Jarlan? But she hadn't heard any cannons. Did that mean he had backed out? Maybe. Maybe he had decided that taking on both Jarlan and Shale at once would be too much.

Imalia shook her head. That was his choice to make. There would always be other chances. Other opportunities to get rid of Jarlan.

_Get rid of him._ Imalia clenched her teeth. She couldn't help but wonder how their mentors had reacted when she'd asked Delvin to kill Jarlan. Would they understand why she'd had to do it? By seeming like a rebel, Jarlan had put them all in danger – regardless of whether he actually _was _one or not. She was simply trying to remove that threat. It wasn't personal.

It wasn't personal.

"Are you all right?" Indira's voice was kind, full of concern. Just like Jarlan's would have been. He had never been anything but respectful towards her. Towards anyone. And she had sent Delvin off to kill him.

Part of her hoped that Delvin _would _back out. That the three of them would come back. That maybe they had found another tribute. If Jarlan found another tribute – if he made a kill – maybe that would be enough to prove he wasn't a rebel.

Then she would have an excuse to let him live.

Imalia nodded. "I'm all right. I'm just … worried about Jarlan. Who knows what they've run into by now?"

Indira bought it. "I'm sure they're fine. We haven't heard any cannons. So they're still alive. Chances are, they're already back, wondering where we are."

Imalia fought back the lump in her throat. Part of her hoped that was true.

But part of her hoped she never had to face Jarlan again.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

He couldn't face both Jarlan and Shale.

Delvin paced back and forth outside the ship. Jarlan and Shale were still inside, preparing. Trying to get everything ready in case they were attacked. Delvin clutched his oar tightly. Imalia had told him to kill Jarlan, but she hadn't mentioned that Shale would be going with them, as well.

Maybe she hadn't known. But she hadn't exactly tried to stop him from going, either. She could have asked Shale to come with her, instead. But she hadn't. Taking on Jarlan alone would have been hard enough. But fighting both of them? She had given him an impossible task.

Maybe she _wanted _him to fail.

Delvin clenched his fists. Yes. Yes, that was probably it. When the three of them came back alive, she could blame him. If he failed to follow her orders, then, in the audience's mind, she would have an excuse to kill him. All she would need was the opportunity.

But he didn't intend to give her that opportunity.

Delvin glanced out into the jungle. He was supposed to be keeping watch. That was his job. The job Jarlan had given him. Not the job Imalia had given him. Delvin shook his head. If he stayed, he would have to disobey one or the other, and whichever one he betrayed would have an excuse to kill him.

The only option was to leave.

Delvin took a deep breath and headed off into the jungle. No one called after him. With any luck, it would be a while before they even noticed he was gone. The sound of the rain was enough to mask any noise he was making. Soon, he would be out of sight. Soon…

Soon, he would have no allies.

Delvin shook his head. Maybe that was better. Maybe having no allies was better than having allies who were bent on killing each other. Maybe having no allies was better than paranoid, jumpy allies who ordered him to kill their district partners so they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty. Maybe—

"Delvin!"

The shout caught him off-guard. Delvin whirled around, expecting Jarlan or maybe Shale, but the voice hadn't come from behind him. As he turned around again, he saw them: five tributes in khaki jumpsuits and some sort of helmets, closing fast. But one of them was calling his name.

"Delvin!" Thane repeated, waving his arms. "Over here!"

Delvin hesitated. Was it a trap? But there were five of them. If they wanted to kill him, they hardly needed a trap. Besides, for all he knew, they had been looking for him for the past two days.

For all they knew, he had been looking for them.

Delvin forced a smile as he approached. "I didn't think I would see you again."

Septimus clapped him on the back, handing him a matching helmet. "Oh, but we knew we would see you. See, this led us right to you." He held up a small compass with a number 6 etched on the back.

Delvin's heart leapt. "The sponsors sent you that?" So they _had _been looking for him.

Septimus nodded. "And now that we've found you, we can help each other."

What choice did he have? "What do you want me to do?"

Septimus smiled. "Tell us what you've been up to."

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

"Tell us what you've been up to."

Thane listened as Delvin explained. About discovering the rest of his alliance was nowhere nearby during the bloodbath. About raiding the cornucopia, about Jarlan sparing his life and offering Delvin a place in his alliance. About Imalia's order to kill Jarlan. About the ship where his other alliance was waiting even as they spoke.

Septimus waited until Delvin was finished, then nodded agreeably. "I think there's a way we can all get what we want."

Delvin cocked an eyebrow. "Meaning…?"

Septimus shrugged. "It's simple, really. You lead us back to this ship. The six of us against the two of them – it won't be much of a fight. Then you go back to the others, explaining how you fought bravely to save your companions but were barely able to escape with your life. Imalia will be impressed that you managed to dispatch both Jarlan and Shale. That should be enough to earn her trust. Then, when the time is right, we use this to find you again." He held up his compass. "And, this time, the six of us take out the two girls, instead."

Thane watched silently as Delvin considered. It all sounded so simple, when Septimus put it like that. So straightforward. As if there were no part of the plan that could go wrong. "Do you have weapons?" Delvin asked.

"Branches for clubs. Rocks. Nothing special," Septimus admitted. "Do they?"

"A couple of oars," Delvin shrugged. "Shale has a knife. There were some chains in the ship, but they seemed to be pretty well attached."

"Shouldn't be a problem, then," Septimus concluded. "What do you think?"

Delvin nodded. "I think we should head back to the ship as quickly as we can, then. If the others notice I'm gone, they might get suspicious and leave – and then we would have no way to find them again."

Septimus clapped Delvin on the back. "Then lead the way."

Thane glanced at Sariya as they followed Delvin back the way he had come. She was gripping her stick tightly. Thane briefly met her gaze and nodded encouragingly. Despite Septimus' apparent optimism, it would probably take all six of them to take on Jarlan and Shale. Jarlan was a Career, after all, and Shale … Thane was pretty sure the boy had scored fairly high in training. And he had apparently impressed Jarlan enough to allow him admittance to his Career pack.

Then again, Jarlan had accepted Delvin without much question, as well. Maybe he wasn't the sort to turn anyone down, as long as they could be reasonably useful.

Thane shook his head. They were a Career pack, too – after a fashion. Septimus and Liana had been willing to take all four of them in. Him, Sariya, Audra, Delvin – none of them were Careers by definition, but here they were.

And this was their chance to prove themselves.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

This was their chance to prove themselves.

Sariya clutched her stick tightly as the ship came into view. At the head of the group, Delvin ducked down low and pressed a finger to his lips. Two figures were standing outside the ship, facing each other. They seemed to be talking, but, over the rain, Sariya couldn't tell what they were saying.

"So what's the plan for getting close without them noticing?" Liana whispered.

Delvin shook his plan. "There is no getting close without being noticed. But I do have a plan. I need a volunteer – someone they won't think is a threat."

"I'll do it," Sariya blurted out before she realized what she'd said. Septimus nodded approvingly.

"All right," Delvin whispered. "Here's the plan."

A few moments later, the two of them emerged from behind the trees, Delvin's hand wrapped firmly around Sariya's wrist. "Jarlan! Jarlan! Over here!" He pulled Sariya towards the ship while Sariya made a show of struggling.

One of the boys took a step forward. "Delvin! Where have you been?"

"Sorry I took off," Delvin apologized. "I thought I saw someone in the trees, so I followed her. And I was right." He flung her towards Jarlan, and Sariya crumpled convincingly to the ground.

The other boy took a step forward. "Is she alone?"

"I'm alone!" Sariya insisted. "I swear! I'm alone! Please, just let me go. Please." She looked up, her eyes pleading. Begging. _Please let this work. Please let this work._

Delvin shook his head. "We can't just let her go. There might be more of them out there. What if she's a scout? What if she goes back and tells the others where we are?"

"The others," Jarlan repeated. "Wasn't she one of Septimus' group? Weren't they your allies, Delvin?"

_Shit. _They'd been hoping he wouldn't put those pieces together. But Delvin recovered quickly. "They _were _my allies. But they probably haven't even been looking for me. You two – _you're _my allies now. And we have to protect each other. If she makes it back to Septimus and lets him know where we are…"

The other boy nodded reluctantly. "He's right, Jarlan. We can't just let her go."

"I'll do it, if you don't want to," Delvin offered, holding out his hand. The other boy hesitated, fingering his knife. Sariya tensed. This was part of the plan. He was supposed to hand it to Delvin. Then Delvin would turn on them…

But he didn't. "No, I'll do it." The boy took another step towards her.

Jarlan nodded. "Asking you to kill a former ally – that wouldn't be right. Go ahead, Shale."

Sariya looked up at Delvin. Shale was nearly on top of her. "Damn it," Delvin muttered.

Then he dove at Shale.

* * *

**Liana Kinney, 18  
****District Five**

Apparently, things hadn't quite gone according to plan.

Liana gave a shout as she, Septimus, Audra, and Thane raced towards the ship. Delvin had a grip on one of the boy's legs. Jarlan was trying to pry him off while Sariya struggled for the knife that was in the other boy's grasp. Septimus reached the group first, dealing a kick to one of the boy's heads before being tackled by the other.

Without hesitation, Liana dove in, striking at Jarlan with her branch while Septimus wrestled the knife away from the other boy. Liana struck again. Then again. Jarlan reached for the oar he had dropped, but, by then, it was too late. Liana grabbed it first, and one more blow to the head left him unconscious.

But there was still no cannon.

Liana turned her attention to Septimus, who had managed to wrest the other boy's knife away and now held it to his throat. "Don't move," he hissed. "Delvin, did you say there were chains in the ship?"

Delvin nodded. "Yes."

"Then let's get these two in there."

Immediately, Liana grabbed one of Jarlan's arms. Thane took the other, and, together, the two of them dragged him inside the ship and propped him up against one of the sides. The chains that lined the wall seemed perfectly positioned, and Liana and Thane quickly bound him in place.

Momentarily, Septimus and Delvin followed, dragging Shale along. Shale was struggling as well as he could, but, once they were inside the ship, another blow to the head from one of the oars brought him to his knees, and a boot to the stomach left him helpless while Liana fastened a pair of chains about his wrists.

Audra shook her head. "Septimus, what are we doing? Why don't we just kill them?"

Septimus shook his head. "Then they wouldn't be any use to us."

"What use are they going to be to us now?" Delvin asked. "I already told you everything about where their alliance is—"

"You told me _your _version," Septimus countered. "You could have lied. But, more importantly, they'll be useful as bait."

"Bait? But I thought the plan was for me to go back and—"

"You really thought that was the plan?" Septimus sneered. "You really thought that I would trust you to go back and tell your new alliance nothing of what had happened here? Why should I trust you not to turn on me the moment you make it back to them, since you were so eager to betray them for me? And you really think either of them would have believed that you managed to kill these two all by yourself?"

"I thought—"

"No, you didn't think. Clearly. You're lucky you're not tied up here with them."

Before Septimus could get any farther, Delvin bolted out of the ship. Liana turned to follow him, but Septimus grabbed her wrist. "Let him go. We'll be able to find him any time we want." He shook his head.

"Right now, we need to take care of these two."

* * *

**Jarlan DuMorne, 18  
****District Four**

The first thing he noticed was the pain.

Jarlan slowly opened his eyes. Pain, sharp and deep, coursed through his skull. He groaned and tried to shift a little, only to realize that he was chained in place. Chained against the side of the ship. Frantically, he glanced around. Shale was next to him, chained as well, blood dripping from the side of his head. But his chest was moving slowly up and down. He was still alive. They were both still alive.

But _why_ were they still alive?

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the ship. "Septimus," he realized at last. "Where's Delvin?"

Septimus smirked. "Oh, I'm afraid Delvin was working for me the whole time."

_Yes, I figured that out by now._ But where was he? Jarlan could see Septimus, Liana, and three of their allies – the pair from Nine and the girl from Seven. But where was Delvin. Had he left?

Maybe, if he was smart. Or maybe Septimus had killed him. Jarlan gave his chains a tug. If only he could get free and find Delvin, he would do the job himself. He had spared Delvin's life. He had trusted him.

He should have killed him when he'd had the chance.

"Why are we still alive?" Jarlan asked, nodding towards Shale. "Why didn't you just kill us?"

"Oh, we will," Septimus assured him. "But you can be of a little use to us before the end. Why don't you start by telling me why you let Delvin join your little group instead of just killing him then?"

Jarlan shook his head. "Why should I tell you anything?"

Septimus shrugged. "Because you still believe that the longer you keep me talking instead of killing you, the better the chances that your other two allies will show up and rescue you."

Jarlan shook his head. "They wouldn't know where to look."

Liana, the girl from Five, shrugged casually, fingering a knife. Shale's knife. "Unless they hear screams."

Jarlan scoffed, trying not to look as frightened as he felt. "So that's the plan? Torture us until we scream and draw our allies into a trap? I don't think so."

Septimus shook his head. "Oh, I think you misunderstand me. They won't be coming for _you_. You see, Delvin told me everything."

"Everything?"

"About Imalia's plan. She sent him out here to kill you. And it might have worked, too, except I got there first."

Jarlan shook his head. "That's not true." He and Imalia had argued a little, certainly. But she couldn't really want him dead. She wouldn't really have sent Delvin to kill him.

Would she?

Septimus took a step closer. "You really believe that, don't you. That she would never betray you because some sort of pathetic concept of district loyalty? It's pitiful, really, how you cling to that at the end." He knelt down next to Jarlan, gripping his neck tightly in one hand. "I'm afraid your fantasies aren't going to help you now."

Jarlan closed his eyes as Septimus drew the knife across his throat.

* * *

**Septimus Drakon, 18  
****District Two**

_Boom._

Septimus nodded, satisfied, as the sound of Jarlan's cannon startled Shale out of his stupor. The boy looked about, dazed, taking it all in: the ship, his chains, the blood on Septimus' knife, Jarlan's body beside him. Septimus smiled a little as Shale set his jaw, bracing himself, ready to accept the same fate.

But his fate wouldn't be so kind.

Septimus stood up, wiping the blood from his knife on the edge of his shirt. "I suppose you know you're next." The boy said nothing. Septimus took a step closer. "But before I kill you, there's one thing I need from you. You're going to scream. You're going to lure your allies here – to their deaths. You're going to watch while I kill _them_. And _then _I'm going to kill you."

The boy simply glared back. Stubborn. Determined. Septimus shrugged. In the end, it made no difference to him whether the boy drew his allies there or not. It was simply an excuse. An excuse to find out which of his own allies had the stomach for what was about to happen.

But it was an excuse he needed. The Capitol never condoned torture without a good reason. But if he _had _a reason – if it seemed to be part of an overall plan – then anything was fair game. It wouldn't be enough to simply accuse Shale of being part of a rebellious district – not when most of Septimus' own allies came from districts that had chosen to rebel the year before. Nor could he claim to be punishing Shale for being one of the 'replacement' tributes – not when he had accepted Delvin as an ally.

But using him as bait – that was good enough.

Out of the corner of his eye, Septimus saw Audra slip out of the ship as he made his first cut. That much, he had suspected. She'd been utterly useless in the fight. Part of him was surprised she'd even stayed this long.

The others stayed. One cut. One slice. Then the next. All the while, Shale's teeth stayed clenched, his eyes fixed on Septimus' own. Glaring. Accusing. Septimus ignored him. Shale wasn't his focus. The others were. Liana he was sure of, but the pair from Nine – they were beginning to lose their cool. Both looked uneasy as he started to carve deeper into Shale's flesh, careful to avoid any major arteries or vital organs. Careful to avoid anything that would kill him too quickly.

Still, the boy wouldn't scream.

Finally, exhausted from loss of blood, Shale's eyes grew unfocused, and his body went limp in his chains. Septimus stood up, wiped his knife clean, and shrugged. "We'll finish this later. Let's get some air." He headed outside, and the others followed.

Audra was waiting there, beside a tree. From the look of it, she'd been retching up her breakfast – and probably last night's supper, as well. She glanced up at Septimus nervously. "I didn't hear a cannon."

Septimus shook his head. "He passed out. We'll resume when he comes to."

Audra nodded. "Maybe I … Let me try."

Septimus scoffed. "Let _you _try."

"Not your way. Let me talk to him. Soften him up. And then you can … you can get back to work."

Septimus rolled his eyes. It was the oldest trick in the book: one interrogator playing nice while the other did the dirty work. But if it made Audra feel useful – if it would convince her that maybe she was doing _something_ – then it was worth a try. If she felt like she was contributing something, then she wouldn't suspect she was next on his list. "Why not?" he decided, gesturing towards the ship.

"He's all yours."

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

"He's all yours."

Audra fought back a wave of nausea as she stepped inside the ship. The whole ship smelled like blood. The air almost seemed to _taste _like blood. But she forced herself to take one step. Then another. She had to do this.

She had to do _something._

What Septimus was doing – it was exactly what she had told herself she _wouldn't _do in the Games. She had told herself she was willing to kill, yes. But quickly. Painlessly. Not like this.

Not like this.

Quickly, Audra glanced around the ship. She could do this. She could kill him. Quickly. She could strangle him with one of the chains, maybe. And then she would have to run. Septimus wouldn't approve of her ruining his plan. But his plan was _stupid_. If Shale hadn't screamed for his allies by now…

Unless it wasn't about that.

Was it just an excuse? Just an excuse to torture someone who had never done anything to him? Audra took a step closer to Shale, who was starting to come around again. Cuts lined his chest, his arms, his legs. Some shallow, but some much, much deeper. There was no way he would survive now, even if she somehow managed to cut him free. What she was about to do was merciful. Audra knelt down, took one of the chains in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Wait." Shale's voice caught her by surprise. "Wait. Please."

"I have to," Audra whispered. "If he comes back in here and you're still alive, he'll—"

"I know." Shale's eyes fluttered open. "But there's something … something else. In my pocket. Right side."

Audra slid her hand into his pocket, and her fingers closed around something. Something metal. She drew it out. "A key?"

Shale nodded weakly. "To the chest. In the corner." He nodded towards the other side of the ship.

Audra hurried over. Delvin hadn't mentioned anything about a chest. What had he been keeping secret from Septimus? She turned the key and opened the chest. "Dynamite?"

Shale nodded. "Give it … give it to me."

Carefully, Audra brought him one of the sticks. Some sort of liquid was oozing from the cracks. "It looks dangerous," she warned him.

Shale nodded, gripping it tightly. "It is."

"All you'd need to do is drop it."

"I know. Get out. Send him in."

Audra bit her lip. "Thank you."

Shale shook his head. "I'm not doing it for you."

"I know." She turned and hurried out of the ship, clutching her stomach in what she hoped was a convincingly nauseated way. She nodded to Septimus. "He's … he's awake."

Septimus nodded, satisfied. "Let's finish this." He turned and headed back into the ship. Liana followed.

But Thane and Sariya didn't. "Hurry," Audra whispered. "We have to get out of here."

Without another word, she turned and ran.

* * *

**Shale Avenheim, 18  
****District Eleven**

He could almost see their faces.

Shale closed his eyes, clutching the stick of dynamite tightly in both hands. All he had to do was drop it. Drop it, and the pain would be over. But that wasn't enough. If he was going to die, he would make it count. He would make sure Septimus – and maybe one or two of his followers – went out with him.

There was no chance now – not for him. He didn't need to look down to know that. Down at the gashes in his chest, the cuts that lined his arms and legs. He should have been dead already, but Septimus had been careful. He'd wanted it to last.

But it wouldn't last much longer.

"I'm sorry, Karinth," he whispered, hoping they could hear him. Hoping at least one camera was trained on him, letting him speak to them – one last time. "Rhodes. Vren. Bale." He swallowed hard. "Raver. Asher."

"Saying goodbye?"

Shale's eyes flew open as Septimus' voice filled the ship once more. Shale shrugged weakly, the dynamite carefully hidden in his hands. _Just come a little closer. _He wasn't sure exactly how big the blast would be, but he wasn't about to take any chances. Not when he wouldn't get a second shot. "You wouldn't begrudge me that, would you?"

Septimus shrugged. "Not at all. Please, do go on. You were probably saying goodbye to your little brother, weren't you – the one you volunteered for? It must be _so _hard for him to see you like this. But you can end it, you know. Just one little scream – enough to let your allies know where you are – and it's all over."

Septimus took a step closer, followed by the girl from Five. _Good. Two of them. _That was even better. Shale shook his head. "You're right. It's hard for him, and I'm sorry you had to see this, Asher. I'm truly sorry – but only for that. I'm not sorry I took your place. Remember that." _Just a little closer._

Septimus nodded, fingering his knife. "Sweet. Sentimental to the last. That was your downfall, you know. If you'd stayed with Imalia, you would have been safe – for a little while, at least. But she killed your little district partners, so you came with Jarlan, instead. Delvin told me everything. It's pathetic, really. How does it feel – knowing you failed so badly?"

Shale smiled a little. "But I didn't fail."

Septimus cocked an eyebrow. "How so?"

Shale didn't answer. He simply took a deep breath. "Take care of your brothers, Asher."

Then, as hard as he could, he flung the dynamite at Septimus' feet.

* * *

**Tamsin Lane  
****District Eleven Mentor**

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Tamsin nodded, satisfied, as the whole ship went up in flames. The blast from the first stick of dynamite had set off the others in the chest, blowing the whole ship to bits. The rain quickly put out the fire, but the damage was done.

No one could have survived that.

Tamsin leaned back in her chair as Elijah took a seat beside her. "You were right about the dynamite," he admitted. "Sooner or later – _boom_. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom!"

Tamsin smiled a little. "You're drunk."

Elijah raised his glass. "You bet I am. Were you watching the same screen I was? How are _you _not drunk?"

Tamsin shook her head. "I still have a job to do."

Elijah chuckled a little. "Oh, yeah. The little one. Philus. Who'd've thought he'd be the last one standing? And with two new allies, no less. He's doing quite well for himself." He clapped Tamsin on the back. "Maybe I shoulda told Shale to team up with those little guys after all."

Tamsin sighed. It was easy to look back and say that things would have worked out so much better if only they'd made a different choice. A different alliance. If only the tributes had turned left instead of right. But the truth was that none of them could have known how things would turn out. Maybe a different choice would have changed things for the better. But, more likely, everything would have turned out even worse.

But there was no use telling Elijah that. Not right now. Maybe in the morning. Or in a few days. Whenever he was sober again. Maybe then she could explain that there was nothing he could have done. Nothing Shale could have done. Nothing that would have made things turn out any differently.

Elijah didn't understand. Somehow, he had made it through his Games without really grasping it. There were no good choices. There was no right path. Not in the Games. Maybe not ever.

There was nothing they could do.

* * *

"_I did things I wish I could erase from my memory - things which I never thought myself to be capable of. But I did come to learn this - there was a part of me which was always capable."_


	41. Enough

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the latest poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who you _want _to see in the final five. Much like the last one, this one doesn't really have any effect on who _will _be in the final five; I'm just curious. As usual, please do actually vote for _five _tributes, and **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

* * *

**Day Three  
****Enough**

* * *

**Casper Hensley  
****District Seven Mentor**

The blast seemed to shake the entire island.

Casper watched as groups across the island reacted to the sudden explosion. _Boom. Boom. Boom. _Three cannons.

But only three. Audra, Thane, and Sariya had escaped the blast. On one of the screens, the three of them were racing north through the jungle. A second screen showed Delvin running south. Both were far enough away from the explosion.

Thanks to Audra.

Of course, it was only thanks to Audra that there had been an explosion in the first place. Casper allowed himself a small smile. Her actions had made her look sympathetic and, at the same time, had taken out three of the strongest contenders in the arena.

She hadn't been thinking about that, of course, he was sure. She had simply wanted to give Shale what every tribute deserved but few got – a quick, painless death. It was too late for 'painless,' of course, but there wasn't an option much quicker than being blown to bits by dynamite.

Just as things were starting to settle down, however, there was a sudden flash of light. Four lights, actually – for separate beams of light, shooting up into the sky in different parts of the arena.

One came from the lighthouse. One from the hatch that Domingo had found. One from a temple-like structure in the northwest corner of the island. And one in the center, maybe half a mile north of where the ship had been only a few minutes before.

Casper cocked an eyebrow. "Four lights. What are those for?"

"Halfway there," Brennan offered.

Casper turned. "What?"

Brennan nodded towards the screen. "Twenty-four tributes dead. Twenty-two left. We've passed the halfway mark."

Casper shrugged. "So why should that mean a bunch of lights turn on?"

"Who knows? In my arena, every three cannons turned the lights on and off. I didn't figure that out, of course, until after the Games. Chances are, this means something, too. But for right now, all it's going to do is draw tributes to those four spots."

Casper shook his head. "Or make them turn around and run the other way."

Brennan nodded. "Some of them. It's an invitation. Whether they accept it or not – that's up to them." He shook his head.

"But I have a feeling there will be consequences for declining."

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

They were still alive.

Audra breathed a sigh of relief as the echoes from the explosion subsided. They were still alive. They had been far enough away.

They were safe.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Three cannons. Shale. Liana. And Septimus. _Good._

Sariya turned towards Audra, surprised. "How did you know?"

"There was a chest with dynamite in the ship," Audra answered. "Shale set it off."

Sariya shook her head. "You knew he was going to kill Septimus and Liana? And you let—"

"Of course I let him! Look at what Septimus did to him! What was going to stop that from happening to you? Or me? Or Thane?" She shook her head. "Now it won't."

Thane nodded. "Good work."

At least he understood. "Thank you."

Sariya opened her mouth to say something, but, before she could, there was a flash. A streak of light shot up into the sky, almost directly in front of them. How far away it was, she couldn't tell, but it seemed close. Too close to be a coincidence.

It was meant for them.

Maybe it was a reward – a signal that they had made the right choice. That _she _had made the right choice. It had been her decision, after all. Thane and Sariya had done nothing. Nothing to stop Septimus. Nothing to help her. Nothing at all.

Except run. They had run when she'd told them to – without even stopping to ask why. Did that mean they would follow her now?

Maybe it was time to find out.

"That way," she pointed. Towards the beam of light. "I think we should follow it."

Sariya looked skeptical, but Thane nodded. "All right. Let's go."

Two against one. Audra turned to Sariya, who glanced at Thane before nodding reluctantly. "All right." Without any more argument, they set off.

Was it really going to be that easy?

Audra almost laughed. Had they been following Septimus so blindly that, now that he was gone, they were eager for someone else – _anyone _else – to make the decisions? She'd expected them to argue. To point out that there could be _anything _up ahead – even other tributes. That they could very well be walking into a trap. That it could be dangerous.

Any of those things would have been true. Any of them would have been a good reason not to go. But they'd said nothing. They'd simply let her make the decision.

She just hoped it was the right one.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

So they'd found the dynamite, after all.

Delvin slowed his pace a little as the echoes from the explosion died off and the cannons sounded. Three of them. Four since he'd left the ship. Four cannons. But whose?

Jarlan and Shale, almost certainly. They would never have survived what Septimus had planned for them. But who else? Had they somehow gotten free and set off the dynamite? Had one of the others found it and not been careful enough? He almost wished he had stayed.

Almost.

Delvin shook his head. He was alive. That was the important thing. Whoever had been killed in the blast, he would find out soon enough. It was getting dark. Soon enough, their faces would be shown in the sky, and he would have his answer.

Suddenly, there was a flash. In the distance up ahead, a light shot up into the sky. Delvin whirled around. Behind him, in the direction of the ship, was another light. A third – a bit farther off – came from the same direction as the first – but quite a bit farther away.

Delvin stopped short. Lights. Some sort of buildings, probably. Maybe a signal revealing where some of the tributes were. Maybe some sort of trap to try to lure him in.

But he wasn't about to take the bait. Not when there was only one of him. If he still had allies…

No. No, there was no use going back to his allies now – to either group of them. Septimus had made it clear that he didn't want him. Jarlan and Shale were probably dead. And Imalia had never wanted him as an ally; that much had been clear from the start. She might be grateful that he'd kept his word and that Jarlan was dead, but that gratitude wouldn't last long. If she was willing to turn on her district partner, what was to keep her from turning on him at the first opportunity?

Then again, he couldn't exactly claim the moral high ground, either. He had betrayed Septimus by joining Jarlan. He had betrayed Jarlan by agreeing to kill him, and then betrayed both Jarlan and Shale to their deaths. And he'd been thinking about betraying Septimus by going back to Imalia and telling her everything – until Septimus had revealed that he had been expecting exactly that.

Which was why he'd had to get away. Septimus understood. He understood that the Games weren't about trust. They weren't about alliances. No one left the arena with any alliances in tact. Sooner or later, everything fell apart.

Maybe he was simply ahead of everyone else.

Delvin clenched his teeth. That was it. He was ahead of the Game. That was much better than the alternative – that he hadn't planned one bit of it and had no idea what the hell he was doing.

Delvin shook his head as he turned left. Uphill, away from all three of the lights. He could always go towards them later. Later, when they'd finished luring other tributes to their deaths. For now, he just wanted to rest.

But he couldn't stop yet.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

He couldn't stop now.

Brevin grinned as light shot up into the sky up ahead. He was close. He was _so _close. His legs ached as he picked up his speed. He had to keep moving.

What, exactly, was up ahead, he wasn't sure. But there was something – some sort of opportunity – and, for now, that was enough. Since running from the group at the houses, he had seen no one. Nothing. Nothing but a bunch of trees. But now there was light. A signal.

A sign that he was going the right way.

One of the right ways, at least. There was another light in the distance far behind him. But this one was closer. More inviting. He could reach this one in a matter of minutes.

Suddenly, he could see a wall. A large, crumbling wall, covered in vines. Brevin ran his hand along it, following it. Whatever this building was, it was huge. There must be something important inside.

Inside. But how could he get inside? As far as he could see, there was no door, and the wall stretched up perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet. Even if he could climb it, if there was a drop on the other side…

Maybe the vines. Brevin nodded to himself, found what looked like a stable portion of the wall, and started to climb. It was slippery work in the rain, but, fortunately, the vines stretched all the way to the top. Once he reached the top, he peered over. Sure enough, there were vines on the other side, as well.

It was almost too easy.

Soon, he reached the bottom. Only then did he glance around. Sure enough, the light was coming from inside the building, shooting up through the open ceiling from a hole in the ground perhaps twenty feet in front of him. Brevin took a step closer. Then another. Soon, he could see that there were actually two holes. Light flooded out from one, but the other seemed to be an entrance to a tunnel. Was this what they had wanted him to find?

If so, then there must be tributes down there. Brevin hesitated. He was alone. He was unarmed. If he ran into more than one tribute in the tunnel, would he be able to hold his own? What if there was a group of Careers?

Brevin clenched his teeth. _He _was a Career. And the Gamemakers had drawn him here. The audience wouldn't want to see him back off now. They wanted a fight. They wanted blood. He hadn't spilled blood since the first day. This was his chance.

His mind made up, Brevin pulled one of the vines loose from the wall. It was about seven feet long, thin but strong. Almost rope-like. It could do as a weapon in a pinch. And a pinch was probably exactly what he was about to get himself into.

Brevin shook his head. He couldn't think about that – about who might be down there. About the fact that they might be stronger than him. Better prepared than him. Better armed than him. He had his training. He had a weapon. That would have to be enough.

Brevin smiled for the cameras as he disappeared into the tunnel.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

She had to look strong for the cameras.

Myrah braced herself as the Capitol anthem sounded. Together, she, Adelia, and Evander sat huddled by the door, sheltered from the rain, gazing up at the sky. Waiting. Waiting for the faces of their allies to appear.

The first face in the sky belonged to the boy from Two. Myrah shook her head. So many of the Careers were already gone. Two on the first day. Two more on the second. Another now. And Jediah had killed one more. That was six.

But there were still so many…

A boy from Three was next. Myrah huddled closer to Evander. The other boy had mostly kept to himself during training. Evander probably wasn't close to him. But, still, they were from the same district.

Just like Aleron.

Myrah clenched her fists. Aleron was different. He had abandoned them. He had run away when they had needed him the most. Why was he alive, and the other boy dead? Why was he alive when Jediah and Nadine were dead?

And, sure enough, Aleron was still alive, because the next face belonged to the girl from Four – the one Jediah had killed. Myrah nodded a little. At least Jediah's death hadn't been completely in vain. He'd taken the girl out with him. Six Careers were dead…

No, seven, she realized as another face appeared in the sky – this one belonging to one of the boys from Four. But not the one who had attacked them. He was still out there somewhere, because the next face was the girl from Five.

Eight Careers.

That left four. Four Careers. The girls from One and Two. The boy who had attacked them. And the other girl from Four.

Myrah braced herself for Nadine's face to appear, but the next face belonged to the other girl from Six. Myrah nodded a little, realizing. She hadn't fully put it together before – that one of the girls Adelia and Evander had killed had been Nadine's district partner.

She shouldn't care, of course. Nadine probably wouldn't have. As far as she knew, Nadine hadn't been close to the other girl. She had even left her district's alliance to join Myrah. But, still, Myrah couldn't help thinking of Melody. Of Thane and Sariya. They were still out there, somewhere – unless their faces were about to appear. If it came down to it, could she really kill them?

Maybe. Maybe, if they attacked, the way the two girls had. Adelia and Evander had never _said_, of course, that the girls had attacked first. But they must have. Evander would never have struck first. And Adelia…

Myrah's thoughts were interrupted by a churning in her stomach as Nadine's face appeared. Evander held her a little tighter, providing what comfort he could. But he couldn't do anything to shield her – not really. The face of the girl from Eight followed, and then Jediah's. Myrah found herself wiping away tears.

She had told herself that she wouldn't cry. That she would be strong. But maybe it was more important to simply be there for each other.

One more face – the older boy from Eleven – flashed across the sky. And then it was over. The faces were gone. Nadine and Jediah were gone. Really gone. Myrah buried her face in Evander's shoulder.

Why was she still alive?

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

They were still alive.

Aleron sat, gaping, staring at the sky long after the faces had disappeared. He had assumed, from the cannons, that his allies had all been slaughtered by the Careers. And he had been partly right. Nadine and Jediah were dead. But Adelia. Myrah. Evander. They were still alive.

And he had left them.

He had abandoned them. He had known that, of course, when he had run. But abandoning them when their deaths were certain was different than … this. They were alive. Somehow, they had fought off the Careers. Killed one of them. Killed both of the girls who had entered the house.

And he had done nothing. He had run. He had fled. Like a coward. Aleron tucked his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. Part of him wanted to rush back to the houses. Find his allies. Beg for their forgiveness. Beg them to take him back.

But would they even want him back?

Aleron brushed the tears from his face. When he had run, he had told himself that he would return. He would return to exact revenge on the tributes who had killed his allies. But his allies were alive, and most of their attackers were dead. There was no one to exact vengeance on. No one to blame.

No one except himself.

No, he couldn't go back. He had to keep moving forward. Slowly, Aleron got to his feet and plunged forward into the darkness. Away from the light that shone behind him off to his left, shooting up into the sky. Away from the light farther in the distance behind him, beyond the houses. Away from his allies.

His allies. Could he even call them that anymore? After what he had done, would they even consider him an ally if they found each other again? Or would he simply be another tribute?

Chances are, they would turn on him the moment they saw him.

Aleron clenched his fists. After all he had done for them, they probably wouldn't even take him back. He had found the houses, after all. It was only because of him that they had any food. Weapons. The three tributes they had killed – the two girls in the house and the Career – that had only happened because they'd been armed. If not for those knives, they wouldn't have been able to defend themselves at all.

Hell, they were only alive because of him. It was thanks to him that their faces _hadn't _been in the sky right along with Nadine and Jediah's. Whether they realized it or not, he had already saved their lives.

He didn't need to go back there and save them again. Not when they would obviously be ungrateful. No, better to keep moving. Better to look after himself.

He had already spent enough time worrying about them.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

So she hadn't been worried for nothing, after all.

Indira swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill as Shale's face vanished from the sky. Ever since she and Imalia had finally made their way back to the place where they had parted ways with Jarlan, Shale, and Delvin earlier that day – the large tree where they had left the sack of potatoes they had found in the cabin – she'd had a feeling that something had happened.

Imalia had insisted that it was nothing. That Jarlan knew what he was doing. When the first cannon had sounded, she'd said that they had probably found a tribute – and that was why they were so late in returning. When the explosion had followed and the lights had shot up into the sky, Imalia had shrugged and suggested that maybe Jarlan had gone to investigate the lights – and _that _was why they weren't back yet.

By that point, though, she had sounded more like she was trying to convince herself.

But now they knew. The reason they weren't back yet wasn't because they were busy killing other tributes. And it wasn't because they had wandered off to investigate a mysterious light. They were dead. They were both dead.

Jarlan and Shale, at least. Not Delvin. Did that mean he was coming back? Or was he still out there in the jungle somewhere, injured? Would his cannon be sounding soon?

Indira shook her head. She didn't really know Delvin. They hadn't been allies for long. But Shale…

And Jarlan. He was Imalia's district partner. For all Indira knew, they had been training together for years. Indira glanced at Imalia, who was leaning back against a tree, her injured leg stretched out in front of her, the other one clutched tightly to her chest as she rocked back and forth. "It's my fault," she whispered.

Indira quickly made her way to Imalia's side. "It's not. It's not your fault. There's no way you could have known, when we split up. Whoever found them could just as easily have found us."

Imalia shook her head. "But it was my idea. I suggested splitting up. We should have stayed together. I shouldn't have sent them off. I should have—"

"Stop it!" Indira yelled, louder than she meant to. Imalia looked up, startled. But Indira didn't back off. "They're dead. But think about it. _Really _think about it. They had to die, eventually. You want to go home, don't you? That's why you volunteered, isn't it? To win this and go home?"

But, even as she said it, she knew it was a silly argument. If Imalia had wanted to be at home in District Four – if that was what she really wanted – then she shouldn't have volunteered in the first place. She could have chosen to be safe, warm, dry … comfortable, even. She'd had a choice – a choice Indira hadn't had. And she had chosen the Games, instead.

"Why?" Indira asked, when Imalia didn't answer the question. "Why _did _you volunteer?"

Imalia looked up, and, even in the fading light, Indira could see the answer. The confidence, the certainty, was gone from Imalia's face. Her voice was empty as she finally admitted the truth.

"I don't know anymore."

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

He wasn't sure what to feel anymore.

Beckett shook his head, stumbling forward in the dark and the rain, making his way towards the light in the distance. He knew he should feel something. If not for Horatio, then at least for Shale, who had been his ally during training. Maybe for Indira, his district partner, who was on her own now, just like him.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Before he had seen the faces in the sky, he had almost forgotten what Shale's face looked like. And Indira … he hadn't seen her since they had been split into two groups the morning of the first day. If they hadn't found each other by now, chances were they never would. For all he knew, she had been with Shale, and was now injured somewhere. Dying. Soon, she would probably be dead, too, and he would be alone.

Beckett brushed the rain from his face. He was already alone. He had been alone since the start. Even in the cave with Horatio, he had still been alone. He had always known that, sooner or later, the boy would have to die. Maybe it was better this way. Better that he hadn't been with Indira and Shale at the start. Better that he had been nowhere near Shale when he'd died. Better that he hadn't left the cave with Horatio.

Maybe he was simply better off alone.

After all, this way, there was no one to tell him no. No one to tell him that heading for the light in the distance was a stupid idea. No one to tell him that there would be other tributes there. That it would be dangerous.

Of course, there _could _be other tributes. And it might very well be dangerous. But it was more dangerous _not _to go. The Gamemakers had spared him once despite his inaction, sending the bear after Horatio instead. He couldn't count on the same thing happening again. They had turned that light on for a reason. They were inviting him. Drawing him in.

It was more dangerous to refuse the offer.

Besides, there might not even be anyone else in the area. He was still close, he was fairly certain, to where they had landed. To the hovercraft. Surely most of the tributes were farther away by now. Surely the Careers had gone somewhere else to hunt.

The Careers. What was left of them, at least. Beckett shook his head, remembering how one of the Career packs had invited him, Indira, and Shale to join their alliance. Now three of those four were dead.

And he was still alive.

Beckett gripped the trowel he had taken from Horatios' body. Even if he ran into a Career now, he might stand a chance. He had no allies anymore but, chances were, they wouldn't, either. If he could catch them off guard…

Not that he was going to go _looking _for the Careers, of course. Except going back to the hovercraft, he would have no idea where to start looking. And there was nothing at the hovercraft, anyway. Certainly nothing more useful than the food and weapon that Horatio had provided him, or the garden whose location Horatio had revealed. And even finding the garden wouldn't be necessary – not for a while. He had enough food to last him for days.

And if the Games kept going at this pace…

Half the tributes were gone. More than half, actually. Forty-six to start with. Twenty-two left. Just twenty-two. Less than a normal year. Twenty-two tributes left.

And he was one of them.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

They were the only ones left.

Naella drummed her fingers on the lighthouse wall. Technically, they weren't the _only_ Careers left. Brevin was still out there somewhere, as was Imalia. But, with Septimus, Liana, Jarlan, and Kendall all gone, she and Jaime were the only Careers who weren't left on their own.

Not that two was much of a pack, of course, Naella reminded herself as she and Jaime settled in for the night. It was even more obvious now that they were settling down to rest. Only one of them could rest at a time. Just one. They would have to take turns watching – only the two of them, rather than four or five.

They hadn't worried much about that the night before. The cave had been isolated enough, difficult enough to find. But when the explosion had shaken the island, something inside the lighthouse had turned on, and it was now emitting a beam of light. A light that could draw other tributes to them.

The safest thing, of course, would be to simply leave. But, now that it came down to it, neither of them wanted to. It was dry in the lighthouse. It was warmer. It was almost comfortable. To go back out in the rain and the cold – without any reason other than that the lighthouse wasn't entirely safe – seemed like a waste of a good resource.

And it wouldn't look very good for the audience, either – two Careers abandoning their resting place because they might be found by other tributes. Maybe there were only two of them, but they were still two of the strongest tributes left in the arena. That had to count for something.

Didn't it?

Besides, with the other Career packs gone – or at least severely diminished in numbers – how many larger groups were left in the arena? Certainly none that would be anywhere nearby. Any tributes who might follow the light and find them would probably be alone, or maybe a group of two. They would be tired, hungry, and simply seeking shelter from the storm.

They wouldn't pose a threat.

As long as she and Jaime could see them coming, of course. There was no guarantee of that – not in the dark and the rain. Even the light from the lighthouse wouldn't reveal a tribute who was making a reasonable effort to remain hidden.

So they would have to be alert. They could sleep, but only one at a time. They couldn't afford to let their guard down. Not now, when each of them was the only defense the other had.

Naella slowly sat down, leaning back against the wall. That was what was bothering her, of course. If she fell asleep now, Jaime would be her only defense. After the way Jaime had acted earlier…

The way they had _both _acted, Naella reminded herself. They had both been tired from their swim. They had been wet, cold, hungry – all the things that Harriet had warned her would cause people to snap in the Games. And they almost had. They had almost been at each other's throats, just like Inviticus.

Naella clenched her teeth. They were stronger than he was. They were more prepared. They were still alive, after all. He had cracked, and she and Jaime had kept their cool. They were still here. That was all that mattered.

They were still alive.

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

They were still alive.

Baylor allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he, Melody, and Philus settled down for the night. After everything that had happened – the explosion, the lights in the sky, the faces of his district partners during the anthem – they were still alive. _He _was still alive.

Twenty-four tributes dead. The Games were half over. And he was one of only two tributes from District Eight left alive.

Baylor turned his compass over in his hands. That couldn't be a coincidence – the fact that they were the ones who were left. Adelia was the one, after all, who had figured out that the Gamemakers had intended to separate them into two groups. And Carolina, in turn, had told him. That had given both of them an advantage.

An advantage that had helped him find his ally – as well as a new, unexpected one. Baylor glanced at Philus, who was already sleeping soundly beside Melody. Clearly, he already trusted her completely.

Baylor was almost jealous.

Not of the trust Philus had for Melody. That was perfectly reasonable. Melody had the chance to kill him and had chosen to spare his life, instead. That was probably enough to earn anyone's trust.

No, it was actually Melody, he realized, that he was jealous of. She had offered a tribute an alliance instead of attacking him, and Philus had accepted. Baylor had made the same offer to Cordelia, and she had attacked him.

What had he done wrong?

Or was it Melody who had done the wrong thing? Should she have killed Philus when she'd had the chance? Baylor immediately felt guilty for thinking it, but what use had the younger boy been? He didn't have any useful weapons or food or other supplies. They could barely communicate with him. He was simply there.

And, sooner or later, he wouldn't be.

Baylor looked away. Away from his two allies. He didn't want to think about that – about the fact that, eventually, he would lose the people he had only just managed to find. Half the tributes were gone. And while that meant fewer opponents, it also brought them closer and closer to what eventually had to happen.

Eventually, Philus would have to die. And eventually, so would Melody. They all had to – all twenty-one of the other tributes who were still left – if he was going to go make it home.

Baylor shook his head. Not yet. They didn't have to die yet. And they didn't have to die at his hands.

_Probably._

But, even as he thought it, he couldn't help picturing Kit. Kit, who, along with his two allies, had made it to the end of the Games. Kit, who had panicked in the dark, empty library and stabbed both of his sleeping allies in the back. Baylor glanced at Melody and Philus. Three of them. Just like Kit's year. But the Gamemakers wouldn't let the same thing happen again.

Would they?

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

Would they still be safe here?

Elizabet glanced around nervously as the lights from the faces in the sky faded. But the other light still remained – shooting up into the sky in the distance off to their right. The Gamemakers were inviting them closer.

But closer to what?

Elizabet glanced around their little shack. They didn't really have any reason to go anywhere. Not yet. They had food. Water. Shelter from the rain. They even had weapons. The shack was as defensible as any other place they were likely to find. They were right by the shore, so there was really only one direction from which an attack could come – only one direction they had to keep an eye on.

There was no good reason for them to leave.

And yet Elizabet couldn't shake the feeling that maybe they should. Maybe they should move on. That maybe the Gamemakers' invitation wasn't an invitation at all, but, rather a demand. Maybe it was their way of telling them to move, or else…

Or else what? Mutts? Other tributes? But if there were other tributes in the area, wouldn't it be better to fight them here, where they would have the upper hand? Elizabet glanced at Fallon, already settling down for the night in one corner of the shack. She didn't seem to have any qualms about staying. But still…

Tomorrow, Elizabet decided, taking a position by the door to keep watch. Tomorrow, they could worry about that strange light. Tomorrow, she could bring up the idea of leaving. They didn't need to worry about that right now.

Did they?

There had been plenty of cannons during the day, after all – as well as that large explosion. Ten faces in the sky. Over half the tributes dead. And it was only the third day. That would be enough to satisfy the audience, wouldn't it?

Over half the tributes dead. Elizabet counted quietly to herself. Calantha had died the first day, but Beckett and Indira were still out there. District Ten had lost only one of their four tributes. Two of Fallon's district partners – Audra and Domingo – were still alive, as well.

So far, their districts were doing well.

Elizabet fingered her knife, staring out silently into the darkness and the rain. None of that mattered, of course, in the end. It didn't matter how well their districts were doing now, how many of their district partners were still alive. Eventually, all but one tribute died. Where the others placed, how well they did … in the end, none of that really mattered.

Still, it felt good. They had beaten the odds so far, she knew. Glenn had told her several times that she wouldn't be able to stay hidden forever. That her little alliance wouldn't go unnoticed for long. But it had been three days, and they had seen no one else since the bloodbath. So far, their plan seemed to be working.

But how much longer would that last?

* * *

**Eleanor Marxs, 16  
****District Twelve**

How much longer would the darkness last?

Eleanor clenched her fists tightly as she and Barry continued down the tunnel. They had heard several cannons since entering the darkness, as well as a larger explosion of some sort. The Capitol anthem had revealed that the day was over, but they had no way of knowing who was gone, or who was left.

None of that, of course, had dampened Barry's spirits. He was still chattering on about how Brennan hadn't had any idea of who was left in his arena, either. There had been no faces in the sky at all – no way of even knowing what day it was.

What Barry didn't seem to realize was that, Brennan's year, that had been true for _every _tribute in the arena. None of them had known who was left, so the lack of information hadn't put Brennan at any more of a disadvantage than anyone else in the arena. This was different – and much worse. But Barry didn't seem to realize that.

Or maybe he did, and simply didn't want to mention it. Didn't want to spoil his own good mood. She'd gotten that impression occasionally over the last three days – that he was smarter than he let on. That he noticed more than she sometimes gave him credit for. His constant chatter, his endlessly cheery attitude … Was it simply because he didn't _want _to think about all the bad things that could happen?

Or was it all an act?

Eleanor shook her head. A dark, damp tunnel was not a good place to start being paranoid. Not that there were any _good_ places to be paranoid, but a small, enclosed, dank space was certainly one of the worst places to start losing her cool. Better to get to the surface first. Then she could worry about Barry and what his motives might be.

He was still chatting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had stopped responding a while ago. Maybe he was simply trying to keep _himself _form losing it. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, to be quiet – in case there were other tributes nearby – but the silence would have been even worse. At least this way, she knew he was still here.

Just then, his voice stopped. "Barry?" Eleanor asked, startled.

"The floor," Barry whispered, his voice suddenly panicked. "Feel the floor."

Eleanor bent down and did as she said, but, before her fingers brushed the ground, they touched water. About an inch or two of water covered the floor. How long had that been there? "The tunnel." Barry's voice was frightened. More frightened than she'd ever heard it before. "It's flooding."

Eleanor swallowed hard. He was right. The water seemed to be rising. "What do we do?" she asked frantically. Should they go back? Would they have the time? Or did they simply have to hope that the tunnel would end soon?

Barry grabbed her hand. "We have to keep moving. Come on. Quickly. Run!"

Without thinking twice, she did. They ran forward in the darkness, their boots sloshing through the water that seemed to be growing higher and higher. But, suddenly, her boot caught on something. Something in the water. Eleanor tumbled forward, catching her fall – but not quickly enough. Something wrapped around her throat. Something that almost felt like a rope. Eleanor gasped, but the rope was tightening. "Barry! Run!" she cried.

But she couldn't see whether or not he had, in fact, run. She couldn't see anything – not even her attacker. But she could feel the rope growing tighter. Tighter. She was getting dizzy. Everything was getting colder.

She just hoped Barry had run.

* * *

**Barry Zephir, 15  
****District Twelve**

He couldn't stop running.

Barry brushed the tears from his face as Eleanor's cannon sounded. He wanted to run back. To try to help her. But it was too late. The cannon had fired. She was gone.

He had to save himself.

He could hear sloshing behind him in the distance. Someone else was following him. Gaining on him. But he could see light. Some sort of light, up ahead. Maybe the end of the tunnel. But how far was it? Could he make it in time?

But even if he did, then what?

Maybe if he could make it to the surface, he could lose his pursuer. Here, in the tunnel, there was only one place to run. On the surface, there would be obstacles – or at least light. But it seemed too soon for daylight. Where was the light coming from?

It didn't matter. If there was light, at least he could see his attacker. He could see who had killed Eleanor. Barry clenched his fists. In his panic, he had dropped the thread. He had even dropped the needle he had found by the spinning wheel. He didn't have any sort of weapon. If the other tribute caught him…

The light was getting closer. Brighter. Barry finally smiled a little. Maybe. Maybe he could make it…

Then something tackled him from behind. No, not something, Barry realized. Some_one_. One of the older boys – from District Four, maybe? Barry didn't have much time to ponder the matter. The older boy grabbed his legs, dragging both of them down into the water. Barry threw a punch, but the boy held on.

Barry managed to catch a breath before the older boy grabbed his head, forcing it underwater. Barry thrashed, his arms and legs flailing, but it did no good. When he and Eleanor had fought the boy from Five before, they'd helped each other. One of them had always been able to distract their opponent.

But now there was no one. No one to help him. Barry struggled as much as he could, but his lungs were beginning to ache. He had to breathe. But his head was still underwater. If he opened his mouth now…

Finally, though, he couldn't fight it anymore. His mouth opened, and water rushed in. Filling his lungs. For a moment, Barry panicked, thrashing harder. But the hands that held him were too strong. Too certain.

He had never stood a chance.

Barry could feel his body going limp. Maybe this wasn't so bad. Not such a bad way to go. It didn't hurt – not really. Not anymore. Everything was getting fuzzy. The light in the distance was growing dimmer. And he had been so close. So close to reaching it.

But not close enough.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****District Twelve Mentor**

He had been so close.

Brennan slammed his fist down on the table, spilling his drink, as Barry's cannon sounded. "Damn it," Brennan muttered as Eldred hurried over to clean up the mess. "He was so close."

But, even as he said it, Brennan knew it wasn't true. Barry had never been close. Close to reaching the surface, yes. But he'd had no way of knowing that, after entering the tunnels, Brevin had used some vines to construct a trap near the entrance. A trap much like the one he had used to trip Eleanor.

And even if Barry had somehow made it to the surface, Brevin had been too close behind him. He would have caught him, anyway. The only difference would have been that Barry would have died on land, rather than in the water.

He'd never had a chance – not really. Not against a Career. Not alone. And Eleanor – she had never known what had hit her. She and Barry had panicked, not realizing that, at the slow rate the water was climbing, they would have had plenty of time to make it to the surface.

Of course, they hadn't known, when they'd started running, how close they were to the end of the tunnel. There was no way they _could _have known. Nothing that could have helped them.

They'd never stood a chance.

Not panicking – that was the only thing that could have helped. Keeping their heads. Being cautious even as the water rose around them. But that simply wasn't human nature. After three days in the arena – three days of being wet, cold, and tired – after hours of wandering through a dark, cramped tunnel, it was simply natural to panic when they realized the tunnel was starting to flood.

But Brevin hadn't. He hadn't panicked. He had been lying in wait for hours, hoping that a tribute or two would come his way. He had stayed relatively close to his entrance of the tunnel. Waiting. Just waiting.

And his patience had paid off.

Patience. Maybe patience was the important thing, in the end. But patience wasn't something you could teach a tribute in a matter of days. It had to be learned. It had to be taught long before the reaping.

Brennan sighed, nodding a little as Eldred replaced his drink. "Is there anything I can do?" Eldred asked kindly. "Anything else I can get you?"

Brennan shook his head. There was nothing Eldred could do. There was nothing anyone could have done. No matter what he did, no matter what the tributes did, District Twelve always seemed to come up short.

Brennan took a drink. He had told Eleanor's father, after the reaping, that he always did his best to bring his tributes home. That he did everything he could. But, so far, his best hadn't been good enough. His tributes' best had never been good enough.

Maybe it was time to change that.

_Isn't your district tired of losing?_

Both of District Twelve's tributes gone in the course of maybe ten minutes. Yes. Yes, he was tired of it. And if there was a way to change that – if there was even a _chance _– then maybe it was time he took it.

Slowly, Brennan gathered his drink and made his way to where Harakuise sat on one of the couches. "I'm sorry about Liana," Brennan offered.

Harakuise nodded crisply. "And I'm sorry about Eleanor and Barry. But people don't usually come to me just to trade sympathy; there are better candidates for that."

Brennan sat down next to him. "Fair enough. Yesterday you offered to help channel some of the weapons confiscated from District Four to District Twelve." He took a long drink. "Does that offer still stand?"

Harakuise smiled a little and placed a hand on Brennan's shoulder. "Absolutely."

* * *

"_I did what I had to do. I was one of the people that was smart enough to make sure that I didn't end up in that ditch. Which makes me considerably smarter than you."_


	42. Wanted

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final five" poll if you haven't already.

* * *

**Day Four  
****Wanted**

* * *

**Mags Pharos  
****District Four Mentor**

She couldn't help overhearing them.

Mags took another drink, trying to pretend she hadn't heard Harakuise and Brennan. It wasn't her place to interfere. Not when one of her tributes had just killed both of Brennan's. It wasn't her place to offer advice now – advice he almost certainly wouldn't take.

Just then, however, Harakuise slid into a seat beside her. "All right. Let's have it."

Mags glanced from him to Brennan and back again. "Have what?"

Harakuise smiled a little. "You were listening. That much was obvious. If you have something you want to say, say it."

Mags hesitated. Did he mean it? Or was it a trap? "I…" She glanced at Brennan. He deserved the truth, even if he wasn't going to listen. "I just thought you should know that … being a Career district isn't everything it seems."

Brennan laughed bitterly. "You're right. Having five Victors must be so terrible."

"Four." Mags looked away. Four, now that Misha was gone. "And that's not what I meant."

Brennan opened his mouth to object, but Harakuise shot him a look. "What did you mean?" His tone was surprisingly respectful. And curious. Maybe _he _deserved the truth as much as Brennan did, with District Five quickly becoming a Career district.

Mags took a deep breath. "I didn't mean that it doesn't increase your chances of bringing home a Victor. It does. And I certainly didn't mean that that's a bad thing. But the price the district pays for it … I'm not sure it's worth it."

Harakuise nodded a little. "What do you mean?"

"I mean … look at District Four. Our training center was always … popular. Right from the start, everyone wanted to spend time there – whether they were serious about training or not. It was a place to meet with their friends and have fun.

"But it grew from that – and I'm not sure that growth was a good thing. Trainees became more and more serious, more dedicated. And the system grew even more competitive. It wasn't enough to simply want to volunteer anymore. There were always so many potential candidates. Just look at this year. Six spots – and they were still filled so quickly.

"The thing is, what would have happened to them any other year? To Jarlan and Kendall, the ones who _weren't_ chosen to volunteer. To Brevin and Imalia, if they weren't chosen next year. The ones who _do _volunteer certainly have a better chance at winning the Games, yes, but what about the ones who don't measure up? The ones who never get the chance to volunteer? They've wasted years of their lives preparing for the Games, and for what? By that time, they've spent so long training that most of them can't imagine doing anything else. Where does that leave them?"

"Alive?" Brennan offered.

Mags nodded, a bit embarrassed. "Exactly. But, somewhere along the way, we stopped thinking of that as a good thing. It wasn't enough to simply be alive. It wasn't enough to simply give our tributes a better chance in the Games. Somewhere along the line, everyone started wanting more.

"And you'll find the same thing – both of you. Brennan, I know you just want to give your tributes a better chance. Who wouldn't? And I'm not saying, necessarily, that you _shouldn't. _Just that it's a decision that you shouldn't make … hastily. That there are consequences that you're not considering now. A decision like this … it shouldn't be made in desperate frustration, right after losing both of your tributes. You need to think about it."

Brennan nodded. "I have. And you're right; it's not a decision to be made right now, by me. It's a decision that should be made by the district. I just want … I want them to have the option."

Harakuise nodded. "And they will." He turned to Mags. "Thank you."

Mags cocked an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For being honest. You have a unique perspective on these matters that your district's Career Victors don't share. I would never have pushed for a Career system in Five, but, now that we have one, I'll support it for the same reason you always did: because it gives the tributes a better chance. And I am sorry that you lost yours."

"I'm not," Mags admitted. Harakuise raised an eyebrow, so she continued. "I'm sorry about _how_ it happened, and why. I'm sorry that Misha took it upon himself to burn down the center, and that the reaction was so severe. But I'm not sorry that the training center is gone. I'm not sorry that our teenagers will have to find something better to do with their lives than hacking apart dummies and spilling fake blood. I'm not sorry that they'll have to learn how to _live _again – not just how to kill."

Harakuise nodded a little. "I think I understand."

Mags shook her head. "I don't think you do – not yet. But I think you will, soon enough. Your district is well on its way to being where District Four was, not so long ago. Eventually, you'll have to decide whether you think that's a good thing."

Harakuise smiled. "I think I already have."

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

It hadn't taken long for his patience to pay off.

Slowly, Brevin climbed out of the tunnel, which was continuing to flood. There probably wasn't anyone else coming. As far as he could remember, the pair from Twelve had kept to themselves during training. There probably hadn't been anyone else with them.

But two was enough. Two more kills – this time, without any help from Kendall. The plan – arranging a series of vines to trip the tributes and lying in wait for them to come along – had been his, and his alone. He had accomplished what he had set out to do – all by himself.

So why didn't he feel satisfied?

He had three kills to his name, after all. There were only twenty tributes left in the arena. The Games were more than halfway over. Every cannon brought him one step closer to District Four.

So why did it still feel like he hadn't done anything?

Brevin shook his head. His kill during the bloodbath … Did that even really count? The boy had practically stood there, waiting to be killed. And these two – they had walked right into his trap. They might as well have been begging for him to kill them. All three had been easy kills. Simple. None of them had put up a real fight.

And the one time he _had _faced a real fight, he had run.

Brevin clenched his fists. He hadn't had a choice. He had been outnumbered. They had just killed Kendall. If only he'd had a weapon…

Brevin sat down, leaning back against the stone wall behind him. He had hoped that, if he made another kill or two, the sponsors would send him something. But apparently, killing a pair of weaklings from Twelve wasn't all that impressive.

So he would have to do better.

Brevin closed his eyes. Not yet. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow. He had spent hours lying in the dark in the tunnels, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. He deserved some rest.

He had earned it.

As soon as he closed his eyes, however, he felt something around his neck. Brevin's eyes flew open. But there was nothing there. No rope. No vines. Just his imagination. Just his own fear. The fear of dying suddenly, unaware, never knowing what had attacked him.

Just like the girl.

_Enough._

Brevin shook the thought from his head. As deaths in the Games went, he had been kind. There had been no long, drawn-out fight. There had been no pain – or, at least, not much. Death had come quickly for both of District Twelve's tributes.

That was the best they could have wished for.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

This was exactly what she had wanted.

Imalia leaned back against the tree, her eyes closed, trying to block out the rain. The cold. The arena. The Games. She had thought she was prepared for this. She had thought this was what she wanted.

She had been wrong. Wrong about volunteering. Wrong about Jarlan. Wrong about them splitting up. She had told Delvin to kill Jarlan, and that was exactly what he had done – somehow. And, somehow, he had managed to kill Shale, as well. He had done exactly as she had asked.

She wished she hadn't asked it.

Imalia swallowed hard. It had been a mistake. It had all been a mistake. But Indira was right. Sooner or later, Jarlan had to die. Shale had to die. That was how the Games worked. She had known that when she had volunteered. When she had joined Jarlan's alliance. When the two of them had agreed to allow Indira and Shale to join them.

Indira. Imalia opened her eyes, grateful that one of her allies, at least, was still with her. Indira was busy using the sharp end of the crowbar to carve up some meat from the pig. It was raw, but, along with the potatoes they had found in the cabin, it was filling. And it was better than nothing.

But it wouldn't last. The meat would go bad quickly – after a day or two, maybe. The potatoes would last longer, but not forever. Sooner or later, they would have to find something else.

Imalia glanced at the light in the distance, the light that had been shining up into the sky ever since the large explosion and the three cannons that had followed. What was over there? Was it worth taking a look? Would there already be tributes there?

Imalia rubbed her leg, adjusting her bandage a little. She wasn't sure she _wanted _to find any more tributes right now. But she couldn't afford to say so. She had to look strong – even if what she really wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

"You think we should have a look."

Imalia glanced at Indira, surprised. It hadn't been a question. "I…" Imalia hesitated. She had almost said _I think we should wait until morning. _But Indira was clearly ready to go now. She couldn't afford to let Indira seem more eager than she was. "I don't see how it could do any harm," she shrugged.

That much was true, at least. Even if there were tributes there, there probably weren't very many of them. There were so few of the large alliances left. If there were one or two tributes there, the two of them could pick up an easy kill. Impress the sponsors.

Maybe that would be enough to make up for what she had said earlier – about not knowing why she had volunteered. Imalia braced herself against the tree and finally managed to stand. It was still as true as it had been then. But she couldn't afford to say so. She had to make it look like a brief moment of weakness – not an admission that she had been wrong to volunteer.

She had to keep lying to them.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He had to keep lying to them.

Thane shook his head as he followed Audra and Sariya closer to the light – a light that they could now see was coming from some sort of building. It looked almost like a greenhouse – small and dome-shaped, made of some sort of glass. He quickly followed the pair inside, trying to appear eager. Trying to pretend that, yes, this would be a good place to stay.

But the truth was, he had no intention of staying.

He had been lying to himself for too long. Trying to convince himself that this alliance was a good idea. That _any _alliance was a good idea. But after what Septimus had done – after what he and Sariya had stood by and let Septimus do – how could he trust any of his allies? How could he trust Sariya, who had stood by his side and simply watched while Septimus tortured Shale? How could she trust him? How could any of them trust Audra, who had helped Shale blow up two of their allies? She had been quick to condemn Septimus for what he had done to Shale, but what about Liana? She had only done what Thane and Sariya had done: stood there and watched.

Did she blame them, too?

No, it was better to get away. Better to get away from this whole wretched alliance. He had been kidding himself from the start. He had never belonged with them. He had never belonged with anyone.

He was simply better off alone.

But he couldn't do anything about it – not yet. Better to sneak off later, when they wouldn't notice. Both Sariya and Audra were clearly exhausted. He was, too, of course, so they would suspect nothing when he offered to take the first watch. They would think he was simply trying to look tough for the cameras. And they would be too tired to argue.

That was the plan, at least. And if one of them insisted on watching first, instead, he could always sneak off later, when it was his turn. When didn't particularly matter – as long as he was far enough away before any other tributes found their hiding place.

Because it was only a matter of time. Audra's idea – her insistence on heading for the light in the distance – was stupid. It was going to get them killed. But arguing would have been pointless. She had been the one to warn them about the explosion. She clearly considered herself the leader now. So he had agreed – or, at least, seemed to.

But he had no intention of staying for long.

Still, he had to admit that it was nice – being warm and dry for a change. The building didn't seem to be occupied. Potted plants had been placed in neat little rows along the floor. Flowers, mostly, but they also managed to find some carrots. A few radishes. Onions. And three small, pronged, rake-like hand tools that they might be able to use as weapons, in a pinch.

Thane took a bite of a carrot. Maybe coming here hadn't been _such _a bad idea, after all. But they couldn't stay. Not long. The best course of action would be to simply grab what they could take and move on. But Sariya and Audra were already settling in among the plants, ready to rest for the night. There would be no convincing them – not now.

It would be easier to leave.

* * *

**Fallon Ladris, 15  
****District Seven**

"We have to leave!"

Fallon jumped up immediately, startled by Elizabet's cry. Her gaze darted quickly around the shack. There didn't seem to be anyone else. No other tributes. No mutts. So why did they—

Then she saw it. Or, rather, felt it. A layer of water covered the floor, quickly soaking through her clothes. It was only an inch or two, perhaps, but it was rising quickly. Fallon nodded her agreement, stuffed a few dried fish in her pocket, grabbed her knife, and followed Elizabet out the door.

Where, exactly, Elizabet intended to go, she didn't say, so Fallon simply followed her friend. As quickly as they could, they raced for the tree line. The water didn't seem to be rising very quickly, but it would be better to head inland – and uphill – as quickly as they could.

"Where are we going?" Fallon called, trying to catch her breath as they ran.

Elizabet pointed. Off to the right. In the distance, towards the strange beam of light that was shooting towards the sky. "That way. That's where they want us to go. They'll probably end up driving us that way, anyway. Better to go now, while it's still our choice."

Fallon nodded, following Elizabet as she veered sharply to the right as they reached the tree line. That made sense. As much sense as anything else, at least. Not that anything made much sense anymore. They had just found the shack earlier that day. Maybe ten or twelve hours ago. Why did the Gamemakers want them to leave so soon?

Was it because there were no other tributes in the area? Was it because it had been three days, and they hadn't seen anyone but each other? Or was it because there _was _someone else nearby, and the Gamemakers wanted to drive them together?

Or was the water simply rising because of all the rain?

That made the most sense, really. It had been raining for three days straight. Of course that much rain would eventually cause the water level to rise. But it didn't quite seem right – didn't quite seem natural – for it to happen so suddenly. The Gamemakers must have had a hand in it.

Fallon shook the thought from her head. Of course they did. They had a hand in everything. That didn't necessarily mean that the Gamemakers were out to get them. Maybe they were driving them towards another tribute because she and Elizabet were armed. Maybe the other tribute wasn't. Maybe the Gamemakers thought this would be a good opportunity for them to make an easy kill.

The thought made Fallon's stomach churn, but she gripped her knife a little tighter. She had to look like she was ready. Ready to defend herself and Elizabet. Maybe that alone would be enough to keep other tributes from attacking. _She _certainly wouldn't want to attack a tribute who looked ready to slit her throat.

She just hoped that would be enough to keep them safe.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

This was the chance he'd been waiting for.

Aleron watched silently, clutching his knife, as the pair of girls neared the tree line. They had no idea. No idea that he was waiting behind a tree, ready for them when the got close enough. Just a little closer. Just a little closer.

But, as they neared the tree line, one of the girls pointed towards the light in the distance, and the two girls veered sharply to the right. Aleron shook his head. Of course they would be heading that way. It was the natural direction to go.

Aleron waited for a moment, unsure. Would it be better to attack now, or simply follow them? If he attacked now, the audience might approve. They might send him something. A bit of food. A better weapon than the steak knife he had now. But if he waited, would the girls lead him to something better?

Aleron clutched his knife. Probably not. They probably had no idea what was waiting for them up ahead. They had come from the other direction, after all – from the shack at the edge of the island. Waiting would only give them more time to notice him. Better to attack now, while he still had the element of surprise.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Aleron charged.

But something must have given him away. Maybe they could hear his footsteps. Maybe he had crashed through a few branches. Maybe one of the girls had simply seen the movement out of the corner of their eye. Whatever the reason, the closest girl turned as he drew close. Startled, she raised her knife.

But the girls hesitated. Both of them. He didn't. He couldn't. His own momentum carried him forward as the girls turned, trying to decide whether it was better to fight or run. He didn't have a decision to make. He simply dove at the closest girl, his knife raised.

The girl screamed and held up her hands to block the attack, but the knife was already in her chest. He pulled the knife out, and blood began to flow. So much blood. "Elizabet!" the girl shouted.

But the other girl was gone. Already disappearing into the trees. Aleron gave his best impression of a derisive scoff, but he could hardly blame the other girl for running. Not when he had done the same thing. He had run when the Careers had attacked his allies.

But now he was the one attacking. And the job wasn't quite finished. Blood still flowed from the girl's chest. So much blood. She didn't have long left, even if he did nothing else. Better to finish it now.

Better to finish it.

Aleron gripped his knife. The girl lashed out blindly with her own, but he quickly knocked it from her grasp. The blow had barely grazed his arm; she hadn't been aiming to kill. But he was. His knife came down quickly, this time plunging into her throat. Then her chest. Again. And again. Finally, the cannon sounded. Aleron gathered up her knife along with his own and tucked each of them into a pocket.

That hadn't been so hard, after all.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

They should have run when they'd had the chance.

Elizabet stumbled forward in the dark, brushing the tears from her eyes as Fallon's cannon sounded. It wasn't fair. They'd been doing exactly what the Gamemakers wanted. They'd kept moving. They hadn't stayed anywhere longer than one night. They hadn't been planning to stay in the shack forever – only until morning. And they had left immediately once the water had begun to rise.

What had they done wrong?

Elizabet clutched her knife tightly. She knew _exactly _what she had done wrong – or, rather, what she hadn't done. What she should have done. She should have attacked. The moment she had seen the boy, she should have charged at him with her knife. But she had waited. She had hesitated. By the time he had attacked Fallon, it had been too late.

By then, it was over. That first blow to the chest had been enough, she was sure, to kill Fallon. There was nothing else to do – nothing but run. The boy had obviously killed before. He knew what he was doing. She had a knife, yes, but she was more convinced now than ever that she wouldn't be able to use it. She was as good as dead already – just as much as Fallon.

The only question was who was going to kill her.

Maybe the Gamemakers would send a few mutts after her. Maybe the boy hadn't given them a good enough show. Maybe they wouldn't be happy until she was dead, too. Just like Fallon.

Maybe that would be better.

Elizabet shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. But it didn't help. Only one thought kept surfacing over and over. She should have stayed. She should have tried to fight – or, at worst, died along with her friend. Now she had no one. Nothing. Nothing except a knife she had been too afraid to use. Elizabet blinked the tears from her eyes.

She almost missed the river right in front of her.

Startled, Elizabet skidded to a halt just as one of her boots reached the edge of the water. It seemed to be rising even as she stood there, staring. That made sense, of course, now that she thought about it. If the water around the island was rising, it only made sense that the river would be, as well.

Elizabet's gaze strayed to the light in the distance. The river was in the way. Would she be able to wade across it? Or was it already too deep? Maybe it was better not to chance it. Then again, maybe drowning wasn't such a bad way to go. Better than being stabbed in the chest, certainly. Better than what the boy had done to Fallon…

_Stop it._ She didn't have to decide now. She could follow the river for a while, and then decide whether or not to cross it. Right now, all that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between her and the boy.

Elizabet glanced around. At least he didn't seem to be following her. Didn't seem interested in pursuing her now that he had gotten what he wanted: a kill. Maybe it didn't matter to him which one of them was dead. Maybe it didn't matter to the Gamemakers. Maybe it was enough that _someone _had died.

Maybe that was all they wanted. Maybe it didn't matter to them. And, as she slowed her pace and continued to follow the river, Elizabet was surprised to realize that it didn't matter to her, either. Fallon was dead now. But it was only a matter of time before Elizabet joined her. Before all of them joined her. Even the one tribute who survived these Games – even they had to die sometime. Maybe it didn't matter as much as everyone seemed to think – whether it happened now, or whether it happened forty or fifty years from now. Eventually, everyone ended up just as dead.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

It was only a matter of time.

Domingo clutched his scalpel tightly, waiting. He had been hoping to be able to get some sleep. But, as soon as he had laid down to rest, some sort of explosion had shaken the entire room, and three cannons had sounded. That wouldn't have been so bad by itself, but then everything had grown brighter – especially down the tunnel that led back to the hatch. Now he could see a beam of light shooting up into the sky. Revealing his location to any tribute who happened to be in the area.

Immediately, he had tried to climb back up. Maybe to close the door, or maybe simply to run now that his location had been revealed. But he hadn't been able to reach the rope, and, even if he could, it would be far too slippery by now to climb.

He could only hope that meant it would be too slippery for anyone else to climb down, too.

Domingo turned the knife over in his hands. That was the best he could hope for – that anyone trying to climb would be injured on the way down, and he could kill them then. So he had been pacing at the end of the tunnel – just out of sight of anyone who might happen to look down the hole – for what seemed like hours.

It probably _had _been hours by now. The Capitol anthem had come and gone. Three cannons had sounded. And still no one had found him. But his luck wouldn't hold out forever. As soon as he lay down to sleep, he knew, someone would come climbing down that rope. That would be just his luck.

So he couldn't sleep. Not yet.

Not yet.

Suddenly, there was a sound from above. Domingo stopped in his tracks, doing his best to stay silent. With the pounding of the rain, of course, any noise he made wouldn't make much of a difference. But better to be safe. Better to be quiet.

There was silence for a minute. Maybe two. Something came dropping down the hole and made a familiar splash. A stick. So there was someone up there, after all – dropping a stick down the hole to figure out how deep it was.

Not a bad idea. Part of him wished he'd thought of that himself before he'd started climbing down. But things had worked out well enough for him in the end.

Another silence. The other tribute was probably thinking. Calculating. Figuring out whether or not the drop was worth the risk. They would be able to figure out, of course, that there was someone down here. Or, at least, that there had been at one point. _Someone _had left the rope there, after all. And, if he had climbed back out, it would only have made sense to take the rope with him.

So the other tribute would be expecting to find him. But they had no way of knowing that it was only him. That he had no allies. Or that he was waiting just at the bottom, ready to strike the moment they came down.

There was a quiet shuffling sound. A little bit of a creaking as the tribute – whoever it was – started to climb. Maybe it was someone older. Someone heavier.

Maybe someone who would be better at climbing. Maybe they would be able to hold on better than he would have. But that still wouldn't stop them from reaching the end of the rope, or protect them from the drop at the bottom. As long as he was ready when they fell, he had a chance.

He just had to wait.

* * *

**Beckett Furlan, 16  
****District Ten**

He just had to focus.

Beckett gripped the rope tighter, trying not to think. Trying not to think about who could be waiting at the bottom of the hole. Whoever was down here, the Gamemakers had wanted him to find them. They had turned on the lights that had led him here. And they had spared him when the bear had attacked. Would they really be leading him into a trap now?

No. No, whoever was down here, he was meant to find them. Meant to kill them. He had a weapon, after all. Maybe it was just a garden trowel, tucked safely in his pocket, but it was probably more than they had, if they had been desperate enough to climb down here in search of supplies.

Just then, without warning, the rope ended. Beckett gave a shout. He had assumed the rope stretched all the way to the bottom. Silently, he cursed his own stupidity. He should have pulled the rope up first – tested it to see how long it was. Now he had no way of knowing how close he was to the bottom.

But he would have to risk it. There was no climbing back up – not anymore. He was barely holding on to the rope as it was. It was too slippery. He would never be able to climb back up.

The only way to go was down.

But what was down there? _Who _was down there? Were they waiting for him? Or had they already left? Had there even been anyone down here in the first place, or had the Gamemakers left the rope there to lure him in? Maybe. Maybe there wasn't even anyone here at all.

He wasn't sure if that would be better or worse.

Because if there was nothing – nothing, and no way back up – then he would probably die down here. But if there was another tribute waiting for him, he might die, anyway.

Or he might kill them.

Maybe.

Beckett clung to the rope as tightly as he could. Could he really kill them? That was why he had climbed down here, after all, wasn't it? He hadn't been looking for food or supplies; he already had plenty. He had been hoping to impress the Gamemakers. The sponsors. To show them that they didn't have to send another bear after him in order to get him to do something.

Beckett clenched his teeth. He _was _going to do something. Soon. As soon as he reached the bottom. But that wouldn't happen until he let go. Bracing himself for whatever might happen when he hit the bottom, he let go of the rope.

One second. Maybe two. That was all it took. But the pain that shot through his legs as he landed was still overwhelming. Beckett crumpled to his knees, clutching his legs. But, even as he did, he felt something. A shooting pain in his back. He whirled around, stumbling in the blinding light that was coming from somewhere nearby. He could see a boy. A boy who was holding a bloody knife.

It took Beckett a moment to realize. His blood. Coming from the wound in his back. He dove towards the boy, but the boy sidestepped, then struck again – this time slicing at Beckett's arm. The cut was quick but deep, and blood started to spurt from his arm. Beckett gave a cry of pain as he collapsed in a puddle of water that was quickly turning red. He didn't even have time to reach for his trowel before the boy's knife plunged into his neck.

It wasn't fair.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

It wasn't fair.

Jaime sighed, pacing around the lighthouse to keep herself awake. Another cannon had just sounded. Another tribute dead. And they were stuck here in this stupid lighthouse, probably miles away from the nearest tribute.

But how could they have known? They had been looking for tributes for days. It wasn't _their _fault they hadn't found any. It wasn't as if the Gamemakers had handed them a map showing them where the other tributes were. She had been hoping that maybe one or two would try to take shelter in the lighthouse, but, so far, no one had ventured their way.

So maybe it was time to leave.

Jaime clutched her pocketknife. It didn't make any sense – drawing them here, only for there to be nothing of value. And what was the point of turning on the lights if there weren't any tributes nearby? "Where are they?" Jaime muttered, glancing out one of the windows.

She hadn't really expected an answer, but, to her surprise, she got one. Something behind her – something deep in the floor of the lighthouse – made a gentle whirring sound, and a door opened near her feet. A series of steps led down into some sort of room beneath the lighthouse. Quickly, Jaime shook Naella awake. "Look!"

Naella followed her cautiously down the steps and into a large, open room. Compared to the rather old-fashioned exterior or the top of the lighthouse, this room looked surprisingly new. The floors were some sort of marble rather than the old stone of the rest of the building. The room was clean, and several screens lined the walls. Jaime smiled a little. Maybe coming here hadn't been a waste, after all.

Naella seemed particularly fascinated by the screens, which were all black. Blank. As if waiting for some sort of instructions. Naella ran her hand along a panel beside one of them, as if deciding which button to press. Each button had a symbol on it – a flower, a swan, a ship. Naella shrugged and pressed the picture of the swan.

Immediately, the screen whirred to life. Jaime grinned as a picture came on the screen – a picture showing a tribute in some other room. The tribute was one of the younger boys. District Seven, she was pretty sure. He held some sort of scalpel, covered in blood. The camera panned to show a body. A body of another boy.

Intrigued, Naella pressed another button. Then another. The button with the flower showed three tributes in some sort of greenhouse. The button with the ship, on the other hand, only yielded a series of static and strange beeps. Naella shrugged and pressed the last button. Some sort of building appeared on the screen, and a single tribute.

Brevin.

Jaime smiled a little. So he was still alive. None of the cannons since the anthem had been his. Maybe that wasn't something to be happy about, but he was still their ally, after all. And he was a Career.

One of the few Careers left.

"This would be more helpful if we had some sort of map," Naella muttered. Which was true, of course. They had no way of knowing where any of the other locations were. But, aside from the ship, there were three buttons.

And there were three other beams of light.

Maybe that was it. Maybe the other locations were the other lights. But which one was closest? The boy from Seven, the three tributes, or Brevin?

Probably the boy. The three tributes – the pair from Nine and the girl from Seven – had been with Septimus. They had been heading inland. And Brevin had been with the other group of tributes – the replacement group. The boy from Seven, on the other hand, would probably still be nearby.

And he would be the easiest kill.

Jaime and Naella shared a look. They had been hoping to rest for the night. But now, it was clear, that wasn't going to happen.

Now they had a reason to leave.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

She had no reason to leave.

Sariya watched silently, pretending to sleep, as Thane snuck out the door, taking one of their helmets, one of the miniature rakes they had found, and a few carrots. The cannon had woken her, but he either hadn't noticed or was pretending not to. He didn't seem interested in her – only in leaving as quickly as possible.

Sariya closed her eyes again. How long had he been planning to leave? Maybe since he had offered to take the first watch. Maybe before. For a moment, she considered revealing that she was awake. Asking where he was going. Why he wanted to leave.

But that would mean a confrontation. Once he knew she was awake – once he knew that she knew he was leaving – he couldn't simply sneak out quietly. Maybe it was better to simply let him go. If he wanted to leave, she didn't really have a reason to stop him.

But she certainly didn't have a reason to go with him, either.

The realization caught her by surprise. They were district partners, after all. They had been allies ever since the train rides. She had always assumed that, if the alliance ever split, she would end up going with him. But, now that it came to it, she was surprised to realize she would rather stay with Audra.

Audra had led them here, after all – which had turned out to be a pretty good idea. They had found food. Shelter. Weapons, even. It was warm here, and dry. Why would Thane want to leave?

He hadn't seemed particularly upset at the part Audra had played in Septimus and Liana's death. In fact, he had been quick to tell Audra she had done the right thing. Which she probably had, Sariya knew, now that she'd had the chance to think it over. Septimus had been dangerous. Audra had gotten rid of that threat.

So why was Thane leaving them?

Sariya opened her eyes as the door closed. After waiting a moment, she sat up. She would make sure to give Thane a head start before telling Audra he was gone. Not that she thought Audra would want to go after him to _kill _him, but she might try to convince him to come back. And since he clearly had no desire to, that might turn ugly.

Better to avoid the matter altogether.

But, since he was gone, someone had to keep watch. Sariya rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms, bracing herself for a long few hours before she could wake Audra and pretend to have noticed that Thane was missing. At least they were out of the rain now. Warmer. Drier. They had food. Shelter. And she and Audra had each other. Why would Thane want to give that up?

Why would he want to leave?

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

Part of her wanted to leave.

Indira glanced over at Imalia as the pair of them made their way towards the light in the distance. With Imalia's injury, and Indira dragging what was left of the pig as well as the sack of potatoes, it was slow going. They had been walking for what seemed like hours. Maybe it had been. The sky was starting to grow a bit lighter. Was it morning already?

Or were they simply getting closer to the light?

Whatever the reason, she could see Imalia a bit better now – and what she saw worried her. Not the fact that she was limping – that was to be expected. But she seemed completely drained of energy, and not just because of her wound.

Indira shook her head. Maybe she shouldn't have asked – asked why Imalia had volunteered. Was it a secret – something dark in her past that she was trying to get away from? Or was she simply embarrassed by the realization that maybe she _hadn't _had such a good reason, after all. She had always seemed so certain, so sure that she belonged in the arena. Now she simply seemed out of place.

Maybe it would be better to leave her.

It would certainly be safer. Safer to leave Imalia, leave the pig she was dragging, take some of the potatoes, and just run for it. Imalia would never be able to catch her – not with her injured leg. She had always assumed that the Games would be more dangerous if she was alone, but would she really be any worse off without Imalia?

Maybe. At least Imalia had a weapon, in an pinch. But if she set it down for a moment – if Indira could get ahold of the crowbar and run – then maybe she would have a better chance. But if she took Imalia's weapon, what chance would Imalia have on her own? Maybe it would be better to simply kill her now…

Indira shook the thought from her head, startled. Amazed by how quickly she had even started considering killing her own ally. Shale and Jarlan were dead already, of course, but she'd had no part in that. To actually _kill _an ally was…

Was what? Unthinkable? A few days ago, maybe. But she couldn't help hearing her own words to Imalia. _You want to go home, don't you?_

And she did. More than anything. She wanted to be home. Safe. Warm and dry. She wanted to be able to sleep without being woken by cannons, fearing for her own life. She wanted to rest – _really _rest, not just resting so that she could get her strength back for the next trek through the jungle. She wanted to eat a meal without wondering if it would be her last.

And, in order for that to happen, Imalia would have to die.

"There!" Imalia's whisper interrupted Indira's thoughts. Later. She could worry about leaving later. Right now, they were close enough to see where the light was coming from. It was some sort of building – shaped like a dome, made of what looked like glass. Indira could see at least one tribute inside. Maybe two.

She glanced at Imalia. "What's the plan?" One tribute, they might be able to handle. But two? And there could be more. Maybe it would be better to simply leave…

But then Imalia smiled. A smile that brought back a flicker of the confidence Indira had always seen from her. "I do have a plan," she nodded. "There's just one thing."

Indira nodded. "What is it?"

"You'll have to trust me."

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

He wasn't sure whether he could trust Adelia anymore.

Evander kept his eyes shut, pretending to sleep. He had slept soundly earlier, while Myrah was keeping watch. And when she had woken him to take his turn, he had done so without complaint. But ever since he had woken Adelia to let her watch, he hadn't been able to sleep.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the lightning. Maybe it was the four cannons that had sounded since the faces had appeared in the sky. But none of that had troubled him while Myrah was watching.

But Myrah wasn't a killer.

That wasn't fair, of course. He had killed, as well. And, most likely, Adelia was right about the fact that Ivira and Presley would have turned on them as soon as possible. Eventually, they would have had to die. And, if he was being honest, it wasn't the fact that they were dead that was bothering him.

It was the fact that Adelia had almost seemed to enjoy it.

Part of him knew that was ridiculous. That she had almost certainly been pretending for the cameras. After what had happened last year, no tribute could afford to seem reluctant to kill. Adelia knew that. She was just playing their Game.

But she was playing it a bit too well.

Evander rolled over again, trying to find a more comfortable position. But that wasn't the problem. The buildings were warm and dry, at least. Myrah was sleeping soundly. So why couldn't he?

Why couldn't he just trust her?

She had only done what she'd had to do. But how long would it be before 'what she had to do' included killing him? And what about Myrah? Would Adelia kill her, if it came down to it?

Would he?

"Evander." Adelia's whisper interrupted his thoughts. Evander's eyes shot open. Adelia was standing at the door, peering into the distance through the rain. "Evander. Myrah. Wake up."

Myrah was on her feet instantly; maybe she hadn't been sleeping as soundly as she had seemed to be, either. Maybe she was just as anxious. Just as worried about what Adelia might do. Evander slowly climbed to his feet. Adelia had her knife in one hand and one of the hammers they had taken from the pair of girls in the other. That could only mean one thing.

Someone was coming.

But, as he approached the door, he couldn't see anyone. Not until Adelia pointed. "Over there. Just past the river."

Then he saw her. A girl. One of the outer-district girls, he was pretty sure. District Ten, maybe? She wasn't close enough to be sure yet, but she certainly wasn't a Career. And she seemed to be alone. "Maybe she won't come this way," Evander offered hopefully.

Adelia shook her head. "She will. She has to. The Gamemakers wouldn't have steered her in this direction if they were going to let her just walk away. They led her here for a reason." Adelia glanced down at the knife in her hand.

"We can't just let her go."

* * *

**Glenn Chester  
****District Nine Mentor**

Why couldn't they just let her go?

Glenn shook his head, his eyes fixed on the screen as Elizabet wandered closer and closer to the houses. It wasn't fair. Elizabet had just lost Fallon. She wasn't stalking Adelia and her group. She wasn't looking for a fight. And she certainly wasn't a threat.

So why couldn't they just let her go?

He already knew the answer, of course. Any other year, they might have. Any other year, Evander and Myrah might have been able to talk Adelia into simply letting the other girl walk away. Any other year, Adelia may not even have suggested going after a tribute who clearly posed no threat.

But it wasn't 'any other year.' Adelia assumed – and probably quite correctly – that the Gamemakers would continue to show favor to tributes who were willing to take the initiative.

Glenn shook his head. The initiative was something he had never taken during his own Games. He had never truly understood that drive, that need to constantly be doing something to impress the Gamemakers. He hadn't done anything impressive during his Games. He had simply survived.

But that was a long time ago. The Games had evolved since then. It wasn't enough to simply survive. The audience wanted blood. They wanted pain. They wanted long, epic fights between desperate tributes, pushed to the limits of what their minds and bodies would allow.

He would never have survived if his Games had been like this.

"It's never fair, is it." Crispin shook his head, sliding into a seat beside Glenn. "It's almost easier when there's a strong Career pack – when they're the ones going around killing all the tributes. This is always harder – when the Gamemakers force tributes who don't want to kill into a position where they _have _to."

Glenn nodded. Crispin understood both positions – the need to impress the Gamemakers and the desire to simply leave other tributes alone. He had spent most of his Games entertaining the audience by seeking out fights with mutts. He hadn't made his two kills until the final five.

And, so far, all of their tributes had the same record. Elizabet, Indira, Thane, Sariya, Melody, Myrah – they had all made it this far without a single kill. More than halfway through the Games. The beginning of the fourth day. And there was still no blood on their hands.

But that wouldn't last forever. Elizabet was headed straight towards Myrah's alliance. Indira and Imalia were preparing some sort of attack against Sariya and Audra. Thane had left when he'd had the chance, but now he was on his own. And Delvin was slowly making his way towards where Melody and her allies had settled down for the night.

All across the arena, pieces were being set in motion. It was only a matter of time before someone made a move. But who would move first?

And who would survive?

* * *

"_I've done everything you wanted me to do, so why did you do this to me?!"_


	43. Prove

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final five" poll if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

Also, a reminder that my sister, MonieGalad Baggins, has an open SYOT, the first chapter of which is now up! So send some tributes her way. :)

* * *

**Day Four  
****Prove**

* * *

**Eloise Davies  
****District Nine Mentor**

She was surprised they had stayed together this long.

Eloise nodded, still watching the screen as Thane made his way north – farther and farther away from his two remaining allies. She had been skeptical when he'd snuck out of the greenhouse for apparently no reason at all. But now it seemed he had made the right choice. Imalia and Indira waited a short distance away from the greenhouse, ready to set their plan in motion. Sariya was still keeping watch, but Audra was sleeping soundly. She had no reason to suspect that one of her allies had left.

Eloise took a drink. She should have seen it coming, of course, the moment Thane and Sariya had allied with each other on the train. The alliance was never going to last much longer than it had to. They had allied in an effort to appear strong, each hoping that having the other as an ally would be enough to create that illusion.

And it had worked – for a while. It had been enough to earn them an invitation into Septimus' alliance. But, in the end, it had been Septimus' leadership that had held the group together. Without him…

Without him, Thane had no reason to stay. The two girls certainly weren't helping the image of strength he was trying to project. What some in the audience would perceive as sympathy and human decency on Audra's part, others would see as squeamishness. And Sariya's initial reaction of horror upon learning that Audra had played a role in Septimus and Liana's deaths wasn't winning her any points with the audience.

Thane's best option was to leave. Sariya's best option was to stay. That was one of the things few people seemed to understand about the Games: that the same strategy simply wouldn't work for everyone. What was working for Thane – being willing to simply take off and leave his allies – wouldn't have worked for Myrah. What had kept Melody alive so far – allying with every tribute who crossed her path – would have gotten Sariya killed.

She hadn't understood, either, of course, when she was a tribute. During training, she had allied with three younger, weaker tributes because they had reminded her of her own siblings. She had foolishly assumed that what had kept her family alive in District Nine – supporting and helping each other through the difficult times – would also mean success during the Games.

She had been wrong. And she had paid for it. But she had learned. Thane and Sariya were learning, too. Maybe in hindsight, allying with Septimus had been a mistake. But it was a mistake that had kept them alive for three days, while more than half the tributes in the arena had perished.

That had to count for something.

* * *

**Sariya Charsley, 16  
****District Nine**

The fact that she had stayed had to count for something.

Sariya slowly made her way to Audra's side and, as gently as she could, gave her shoulder a shake. "Audra. Audra, wake up."

Immediately, Audra's eyes flew open. "What is it?"

"It's Thane," Sariya whispered, hoping she sounded convincingly worried. "He's gone."

"Gone?" Audra's voice was suddenly frantic. "What do you mean he's gone?"

Sariya shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know where he went. I just woke up, and he was … just gone."

Audra quickly got to her feet. "Then we have to leave. Now."

_What? _"Why?"

Audra quickly slipped her boots back on and stuffed a few carrots in her pockets. "We don't know how long he's been gone – or where he went. What if he finds another alliance and offers to bring them back here to kill us in exchange for his life?"

Sariya's heart began to race. A day or two ago, that idea might have sounded far-fetched or paranoid. But now … after what Septimus had done, after what Delvin had done, after all the betrayal and double-crossing … now it didn't sound so crazy.

Sariya shook her head, silently cursing herself for not having thought of it. She had assumed that Thane simply wanted to get away. And if he was coming back to kill them, he probably would have done it by now. He had been gone for hours.

But she couldn't tell Audra that. Not without revealing that she had been watching. That she had known Thane was leaving and had done nothing to stop him. That she had let him go without a fight. Without a fuss. Without even a word.

And if she told Audra _that_, her ally might begin to suspect _her_. She had put both of them in danger, after all, without even realizing it. And for what? Because Thane was her district partner? Because it only seemed fair to let him go? Because she hadn't wanted to argue with him? Hadn't wanted to fight him?

Because she hadn't wanted to kill him?

That was the truth, after all. She had never wanted to kill him. Even now, more than halfway through the Games, she didn't even want to think about killing him. About killing any of her district partners. They were all still alive, after all – all four of the tributes from Nine – as long as none of the recent cannons had been theirs. How could she be the one to break that streak?

But, eventually, someone had to. Only one tribute could make it home. And, if she wanted it to be her, then it couldn't be Melody, or Myrah, or even Thane. They had to die. They all had to die.

But they didn't have to die yet.

Silently, Sariya slipped on one of their helmets, grabbed her hand rake, and followed Audra back out into the night. Back into the rain.

Then they heard the voices.

* * *

**Audra Trevaille, 18  
****District Seven**

She wished she could make out what they were saying.

Audra and Sariya crouched low just outside the greenhouse, listening. The voices were loud – shouting, even – but she couldn't quite make out the words over the rain. Both of the voices sounded angry. They would have to be, of course – angry and quite distracted – if they had managed not to notice the two of them sneaking out of the greenhouse.

Audra glanced at Sariya, who shrugged, deferring. Passing the decision back to Audra. Audra's gaze strayed to the weapon in her hand. If the other tributes weren't armed…

On the other hand, she and Sariya already had everything they needed. Food. Weapons. Their helmets. Silently, Audra reached up and switched her helmet's light off. It wouldn't make much of a difference here, of course. If the two tributes were ignoring the light that was shooting up into the sky, they certainly wouldn't see the light on her helmet.

But if they ventured closer…

Maybe this was their chance. When the lights had first come on, after the ship exploded, Audra had been convinced the Gamemakers were rewarding them. Was this the reward? The chance to make their first kill?

Could they afford not to take that chance?

Audra gripped her weapon tightly. So far, they hadn't done anything that would make much of an impression on the sponsors. They had followed Septimus pretty much without question for days. She had found the helmets in the plane, but only because Septimus had insisted that someone climb up. And she had been responsible – albeit a bit indirectly – for the deaths of two of her allies.

So maybe she had done _something_, at least. Sariya, on the other hand, was probably itching for the chance to prove herself. Especially since she had let her district partner walk off with food, a weapon, and one of their helmets. Not that she'd really had a choice, of course, if he'd managed to sneak off while the two fo them were asleep, either, but, still…

"Let's get a closer look," Audra whispered, and Sariya followed her lead. Together, they snuck closer and closer to the voices in the darkness. They could always turn around, if it looked too dangerous. If there was a large group. If—

But it wasn't a large group, Audra realized as they finally crept close enough to see what was happening. There were two girls. Older girls, but they didn't seem to be armed. One of them lay on the ground, clutching her leg and shouting at the other. "If you had just killed that stupid boar a little quicker—"

The other girl gave her a kick in the stomach. "Well, if _you _hadn't suggested that we split up, maybe there would have been more of us around to kill the boar!"

"What's the matter – Don't have enough pigs to practice on in District Ten?"

Another kick. "Well, there seem to be plenty in Four! Do you even _care _that your district partner is dead?"

"Well, he probably got skewered by a _boar _because his useless ally wasn't quick enough!"

Audra gripped her weapon. Jarlan and Shale. They were talking about Jarlan and Shale. The girl from Four – she had been the one who had suggested they split up. The one who had ordered Delvin to kill Jarlan. And now she was injured. And the other girl was unarmed.

It was almost too perfect.

Audra shook the thought from her head. Maybe it _was _a little too perfect, but they couldn't afford to pass up the opportunity. Neither girl was armed. Neither was paying any attention to them. Audra nodded to Sariya.

And they both charged.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She didn't see the two girls charging.

Indira reached down and scooped up the crowbar at Imalia's feet. She hadn't seen the two girls charging. But Imalia had. That was her job – to watch, waiting for the two tributes in the greenhouse to attack while Indira did her best to make both herself and Imalia look as vulnerable and defenseless as possible.

But they were anything but defenseless.

Imalia had barely given her a nod of confirmation, but that was all she needed. Indira whirled around, swinging the crowbar as hard as she could at the tributes she knew would be there. The crowbar connected with a tribute's stomach, knocking her off-balance. Immediately, Imalia joined the fight, tackling the girl Indira had just struck, wrenching away her weapon – some sort of small, hand-held rake – and plunging the pointed end into the girl's neck.

Meanwhile, the second girl – from District Nine, Indira was pretty sure – had managed to graze Indira's shoulder with her own hand rake. But Indira took a step back, taking advantage of the crowbar's longer reach. She swung again, this time striking the girl's hand, knocking the weapon from her grasp.

As Imalia scooped up the weapon, the girl turned to run. Indira hesitated only a moment before giving chase. The crowbar swung again, this time finding only air. But the next time, the blow struck one of the girl's legs. Indira dove, clutching the girl's legs tightly, but dropping the crowbar in the process. "Imalia!" she shouted.

And, to her surprise, Imalia was there almost instantly, holding the crowbar that Indira had dropped. "No! Please!" the girl shouted, but Indira held on tightly as Imalia drove the pointed end of the crowbar into the girl's stomach. There was a shriek – almost like the sound the pig had made – and then a cannon.

But only one cannon. Breathing heavily, Indira and Imalia made their way back to where the other girl lay, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the wound in her neck. Imalia nodded to Indira, gesturing towards the hand rake that lay on the ground by the girl. Offering her the kill.

Indira's stomach churned. It was only a matter of time now. The girl was as good as dead. Wasn't it better to put her out of her misery? Still, she hesitated. Imalia took a step closer. "Together?"

Indira nodded, and picked up the weapon. But, as she knelt by the girl's side, the girl glared up at her, her gaze fierce, but her voice garbled by blood. Still, she managed to get out one word. "Traitor."

Imalia's crowbar came down. Indira buried her weapon in the girl's chest. The cannon sounded. It was over.

But what had she meant?

"Who knows?" Imalia shrugged when Indira asked. "Maybe she thought you were someone else. Or I was someone else. She was dying. Delirious. It doesn't matter."

Indira nodded. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it _did _matter. That the accusation had been more than a dying hallucination.

Indira pushed the thought away. It wasn't important. Not now. Not when they had just killed two tributes.

They. Indira glanced up at Imalia, who nodded. Smiling a little. "Not bad for your first fight."

Indira nodded. Glanced at the bodies. The blood. The blood on her own hands. It was an odd compliment, but, somehow, she had the feeling Imalia meant it. That she _had _done well. She had held her own. They had killed two tributes together. And maybe it was horrible, but at least they hadn't been younger tributes. Not like Shale's district partners. They'd had a fair chance. And they had lost.

Could it really be that simple?

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

Could it really be that simple?

Imalia gripped her crowbar tightly as she and Indira gathered up their supplies and made their way to the building. Now that they were closer, she could see that it was, indeed, made of glass. A greenhouse of some sort. It took a little while, but they finally managed to get everything inside: the pig, the potatoes, the crowbar, and the two hand rakes and pair of helmets they had taken from the other tributes.

Not bad for a night's work.

For the night did, indeed, seem to be ending. The rain still pounded the glass dome, but light was starting to creep into the sky in the distance. Imalia and Indira leaned back against the wall of the greenhouse, exhausted. "I'll take the first watch," Indira offered.

Imalia was too tired to argue. But the cameras were still watching. She couldn't afford to appear weak. Dependent on her ally. "Are you sure?" she asked. "If you need some sleep, I could—"

Indira shook her head. "I'm fine. I'll wake you in a few hours. Get some rest."

Imalia nodded and lay down. Her leg still ached where the boar's tusk had sliced it, but, still, it had felt good to _do _something. Something that didn't involve plotting to kill her district partner, fighting off a boar, or killing small tributes. Two tributes were dead, yes, but it had been a fair fight. A good fight.

The sort of fight she had been expecting when she'd volunteered.

Maybe that was it. This was the sort of fight she had trained for. She hadn't volunteered to kill wild pigs or to cut down tributes who weren't a threat. But _this _… this was what she had volunteered for.

It had almost been fun.

Imalia glanced up at Indira. The older girl was trying to hide it, but Imalia could tell she had felt it, too. The rush. The adrenaline surging. The uncertainty of facing an opponent who was actually a challenge. The thrill of the victory.

A small victory, maybe. But a victory, nonetheless. And each small victory brought them one step closer to the final one.

No. No, not _them_. Imalia closed her eyes. The rush was beginning to wear off, giving way to the realization that, eventually, there would be no _them_. Eventually, Indira would be an opponent, as well. But for now…

For now, they had made a good team – she had to give Indira credit for that, at least. It had been Imalia's plan, of course, but, for a few moments, she had questioned whether Indira would have the guts to carry it out.

She shouldn't have doubted her. Indira didn't _want _to kill. Few tributes did. But, when it had come down to it, she _had _killed. Just like Imalia.

Maybe they weren't so different.

Indira had reminded her, after all – however inadvertently – that there was a _reason _she had volunteered. And maybe that reason hadn't been particularly compelling. Maybe it hadn't been a very _good_ reason at all. But she was here now. And she had no intention of dying here.

And the only way not to die was to kill. The fight had brought them closer. Two tributes closer to the end. Sixteen tributes left. And they were two of them.

Imalia clenched her fists. No. No, not _they_. _She _was _one _of them. One. One tribute. Only one could make it out alive. Only one.

And it was going to be her.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

It wasn't going to be her.

Myrah clenched her fists as Adelia explained her plan and the three of them gathered their weapons. Maybe someone had to kill the girl who was stumbling closer and closer to them in the growing light. Maybe someone had to do it. But it didn't have to be her.

It wasn't going to be her.

Fighting the Careers was one thing. The Careers had meant to kill them all. _Would _have killed them all, without batting an eye. But this girl … she hadn't done anything to them. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn't her fault.

But it wasn't _their _fault, either.

It wasn't Myrah's fault she was trapped in a death match with a slowly dwindling number of tributes. It wasn't her fault she was going to have to kill eventually, in order to make it home. It wasn't her fault that the Capitol had dumped them all here, that the audience was sitting around waiting, watching to see if she would make a move.

Maybe it _was _time for her to make a move.

Adelia and Evander each had a kill, after all. Maybe it _was _her turn. Her turn to take initiative.

Myrah gripped her knife tightly. That wasn't Adelia's plan. Adelia's plan wasn't particularly complex, of course, but it would probably work. They would circle around the river. Cut off anywhere the girl might run. And whichever way she ran … that person would kill her.

But maybe there was a better plan…

Myrah glanced at Adelia and Evander, still arguing in the corner about whether or not it was a good plan. There was nothing to argue about, really, but Evander was probably hoping that, if he stalled long enough, the girl might simply leave. Turn around and go back the way she had come.

Slowly, Myrah crept out of the house. She could do this. She _would _do this. Silently, she tucked her knife in her pocket. The girl was standing on the other side of the river, staring at it. And with good reason – it seemed quite a bit higher than it had been the day before. But that wasn't important right now.

What was important was that the girl hadn't seen her.

Myrah took off running. Sure enough, that caught the girl's attention. "Back there!" Myrah called as soon as she was sure the girl would be able to hear her. "Back there! Careers! Hurry! Run!"

The girl ran – back along the river the way she had come. Myrah followed, glancing behind her every now and then. Pretending to see someone following them. Finally, the river narrowed enough for Myrah to splash across, and the pair kept running side by side.

"I think … I think we're safe," the other girl gasped, slowing to a halt.

Myrah shook her head, stopping beside the girl, anyway. "They killed them. My allies. Those two cannons – we weren't watching closely enough. No warning. I barely – barely snuck out the back." She buried her face in her hands, hiding the fact that there were no tears to hide. "I … I'm all alone."

The other girl nodded. "I'm all alone, too. My ally … a boy killed her. One of the boys from Three. Caught us off-guard and just … just attacked us." Her tears were real. "I didn't even try to fight him off. I just … I just ran."

_One of the boys from Three. _Aleron? Aleron had killed her ally? It must have been. He and Evander were the only tributes left from Three. And if Aleron had killed her ally, that meant he might still be around somewhere.

That changed everything.

* * *

**Elizabet Brower, 15  
****District Ten**

This changed everything.

Elizabet stared at her new ally, still not quite believing it. She had assumed, when Fallon died, that she would be on her own for the rest of the Games – or however much of it she lived through. She hadn't imagined being able to find another ally this late in the Games – but now one had practically fallen into her lap.

It seemed a little too good to be true.

But her story – if a story was, indeed, what it was – made sense. There had been two cannons shortly before the girl had fled the houses. There were a few Careers left; she knew that much, at least. And the girl did seem to be pretty shaken up.

But still…

Elizabet clenched her fists. She had hesitated once – and Fallon had died. She couldn't afford to make the same mistake again. But could she really afford to pass up a chance at an alliance, when the Careers might be nearby? When the boy who had killed Fallon might still be nearby?

Besides, the girl didn't seem to be armed. Then again, Elizabet's own knife was in her pocket. Maybe the girl had one, as well. But if she'd had one, wouldn't she at least have taken it out when she saw the Careers?

If she was even running from the Careers…

Elizabet shook her head, standing again. "I … I think I should keep moving." _I _should keep moving. Not _we_. Hopefully, the other girl would take the hint. She couldn't afford to take any risks. Not now. Having no allies was better than having an ally she wasn't sure she could trust…

The other girl looked up. "Please … Can I come with you?"

"I don't think … I don't think you'd want to."

"But I do. Please. I don't have anyone else."

"Neither do I, but—"

"Then we should stick together. For a little while, at least. Please?"

Elizabet hesitated. No. No, this wasn't right at all. The girl was too insistent. Too helpless. She couldn't have made it this far simply by begging and pleading. Elizabet took a step back and drew her knife. "I said no."

For a moment, there was silence. The other girl hesitated. Her hand moved towards her pocket. So she _did _have a weapon. But she must have decided against it, because she simply shrugged. "All right. I hope the Careers don't find you."

Elizabet nodded. "You, too." She took a step backwards, keeping her eye on the girl. "Good luck."

But before the other girl could wish her luck, as well, a sharp pain shot through her back. Elizabet turned, surprised, to see a boy holding a bloody knife. The same boy who had killed Fallon. "Run!" Elizabet shouted, sinking to her knees as the world began to grow blurry.

But the girl didn't run.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

Myrah wasn't running.

Aleron took a step back as the girl's cannon sounded. Myrah hadn't run from him. That was a start, at least. She had drawn her knife as the cannon sounded, but she hadn't attacked him, hadn't warned the girl when she had seen him sneaking up behind her. Could it be that she still trusted him?

Were they still allies?

Aleron bent down and pried the knife from the other girl's hand. "There aren't any Careers, are there."

Myrah shook her head. "Not nearby, I don't think. Jediah killed one of the ones who attacked us when…"

_When you ran. _She didn't say it, but she might as well have. It seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago, to someone else. "So why did you leave them?"

Myrah nodded towards the body at his feet. "To kill her."

Aleron cocked an eyebrow. "Good job."

Myrah scowled. "I was doing just fine before you came along."

Aleron shrugged. "And we did better together."

"I don't need your help. _We _don't need your help."

_We_. But she had said _I _first. She was learning. Whether that was good or bad, Aleron wasn't sure. It certainly made her more dangerous. But it could also make her more useful. "So we just … walk away, then?"

Myrah gripped her knife. "If you're lucky."

Aleron smirked. "I'm feeling lucky. How about you?"

"You're not going to kill me." But she didn't sound so certain.

"And you're not going to kill me."

"Why not?"

"Because you understand. You know why I ran. It was the best choice. They were going to die eventually. There was no reason for me to risk my life, too."

"Nadine and I did."

"And look where it got her. You obviously got lucky. Do you really think that would ever happen again?"

Myrah took a step back. He had hit a nerve. What had happened back there? "How did you survive?" Aleron asked.

"I…" She looked away. "You're right. I got lucky. The girl … she went after Nadine, instead. It could have been me."

Aleron nodded. "It could have. But it couldn't have been me. I made _sure _it wasn't me. And that's what you need to do – right now. Make sure you're not next."

"What do you mean?"

"If we go back to the others now – to Evander and Adelia – they'll expect everything to go right back to normal. Back to watching each other's backs, to being ready to lay down our lives for each other. And you would. You would die for them. I saw you jump off that roof to help Jediah. You would do it again in a heartbeat." He shook his head. "That's why you need to get away from them."

"And go where?"

"With me."

"Why should I trust you?"

Aleron shrugged. "You shouldn't. That's the point. You can't trust me. You certainly wouldn't lay down your life for me. Which makes me a much safer person for you to be around." He shook his head. "Does that make any sense?"

But he already knew the answer. He could see it in her eyes. Slowly, Myrah lowered her knife.

"Where are we going?"

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

"Where did she go?"

Adelia drummed her fingers on the table, frustrated. She and Evander had been ready to attack. Ready to carry out her plan. But, the moment they had turned around, ready to step out the door, they had realized Myrah was gone. And, when they had looked out the door, the girl from Ten was gone, as well. Then the cannon had sounded.

It didn't make any sense.

"Myrah!" Evander called over the rain. "Myrah!"

Adelia shook her head. "That's not going to do any good."

Evander didn't seem to be listening. "Myrah! Myrah, where are you!"

"Stop it!" Adelia didn't realize she'd slapped him until she yanked her hand back, and Evander stepped back, startled. "Stop it!" she repeated. "That's not helping! If she left, yelling for her isn't going to bring her back."

"But what if she didn't leave? What if someone took her? What if she—"

Adelia shook her head. "Then she's probably dead. You heard that cannon. And if she _is_ dead, then whoever killed her is nearby. Do you _really _want to attract their attention?"

"But what if she's not dead? What if she managed to kill them? What if she's out there somewhere, and she's hurt, and—"

"Then she'll be dead _soon_. I'm trying not to get _us _killed, too. If you want to go out there and look for her, then go!"

She hadn't expected him to actually do it. But no sooner had she said it than Evander had turned and headed out the door, his knife in one hand and a hammer in the other, running away from the river – the opposite direction from where they had seen the other girl. "Evander!" Adelia called. "Wait!"

But it was too late. Too late to get him to wait. Too late to get him to think. He wasn't thinking about anything other than trying to save his ally. An ally who, for all they knew, was already dead.

Adelia leaned back against the wall, clutching her knife. She could follow him. But what good would it do? Even if she caught him, she would never be able to convince him to come back. Not until they were sure that Myrah was dead.

But what if she wasn't…?

Adelia shook her head. If she wasn't dead – if she had simply left on her own – then, clearly, she wouldn't want to be found. She wouldn't want to come back, even if Evander managed to find her. So his errand was _still _useless. There was nothing for her to do but wait. Wait and see if either of them came back.

Maybe it would be better if they didn't.

Adelia turned the knife over in her hands. She had always known – they all had – that their alliance wouldn't last forever. She had expected it to last longer than this, but maybe … maybe it was time. Maybe they wouldn't be coming back.

And maybe that was for the best.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

Maybe this was for the best.

Evander didn't even look back as he raced blindly in the direction he assumed Myrah had gone – away from the houses. Away from the other girl. Even if he was wrong – even if Myrah hadn't come this way – maybe it was best to put as much distance between himself and Adelia as possible. If Adelia didn't care enough to help him look for their missing ally, then maybe he was better off without her.

Evander shook his head. Maybe he should have seen it coming the first time Adelia had been reluctant to go looking for Aleron. But he had believed – had wanted to believe – that she had argued against going after him simply because they would have had no idea where to look. But he had a pretty good idea where Myrah had gone.

There was no way anyone could have come into the house and taken her without him and Adelia realizing it. So she had left. And, if she had left, there were only two possibilities. Either she had been horrified by the fact that they were contemplating attacking the other girl, who appeared defenseless, and decided to leave, or she had gone after the other girl on her own.

He wasn't really sure which one was more likely.

Myrah hadn't seemed particularly disturbed, after all, when she had learned that he and Adelia had killed Presley and Ivira. This wasn't any different.

Was it?

But Presley and Ivira had found _them._ Would have attacked them, if Adelia hadn't attacked first. Maybe. Probably. They had offered to help them fight off the Careers, but afterwards…

On the other hand, he had never told Myrah that. Never told her that he and Adelia had been the ones to attack. For all she knew, the other girls could have made the first move. He and Adelia could have simply been defending themselves.

And there was certainly a difference between _that_ and what they had been planning to do.

Evander stumbled forward in the rain. If Myrah had simply wanted to get away from them – away from both them and the other girl – then this was probably the way she would have gone. But if she had been planning to attack…

Evander clenched his fists. No. No, he simply couldn't picture that. What reason could she possibly have for wanting to take on the other girl alone, rather than waiting to attack together? No, she must have gone this way.

"Myrah!" Evander called frantically as he ran. "Myrah! Myrah, come back!"

But part of him knew. If she had run away because of what they were planning to do, then she wouldn't _want _to come back. And no amount of screaming was going to change that. Finally, Evander's pace slowed to a walk. Running wasn't doing any good. Screaming wasn't going to do any good.

He would simply have to hope for some sort of sign to follow.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

He wished he had something to follow.

Delvin gasped for breath as he finally reached the top of the hill. The view on the other side wasn't particularly spectacular: more trees, and more of the same blinding rain that had been soaking them since the first day. Delvin shook his head. Septimus had said, so long ago, that the constant rain meant that the water would eventually rise. So at the top of a hill was probably the safest place to be.

But how long could he stay here?

Delvin sat down, leaning back against the largest tree he could find. He could stay a little while, at least. He would have to. He had been on the move ever since running from Septimus and his allies. All through the night, he hadn't dared to sleep, for fear that someone would find him in the dark.

But would it really be better if they found him in the light?

Delvin struggled to keep his eyes open – just a little longer. He couldn't sleep. Not for long. But, once he fell asleep, there would be no one to wake him. His allies…

No. Not anymore. They weren't his allies now – any of them. And if, by chance, they found each other again, he was certain they would see it the same way. He was on his own. And, for the most part, that was probably a good thing. But when it came to sleep…

Delvin rubbed his eyes. He would have to sleep eventually. Maybe now was as good a time as any. Light was just beginning to appear in the sky. Other tributes would just be waking up. They wouldn't want to start moving right away. They would want to eat first – if they had food. Or maybe they would want to sleep a little longer.

Just like he did…

Delvin stretched a little. Maybe it didn't matter at all, in the end. If the Gamemakers wanted other tributes to find him while he slept, that was exactly what would happen – whether he was asleep at night or during the day. But he had done nothing to upset them. Nothing except refuse to turn back and head towards the light behind him. But surely that wouldn't be enough to upset the Gamemakers or the audience. For all they knew, he was headed for the other light, which was still a good distance away.

For all they knew, resting was part of the plan.

Finally, Delvin lay down and closed his eyes. It would _have _to be part of the plan – whether it was a good idea or not. He would just have to trust that his previous activity would be enough to compensate for the fact that he needed to rest now. He had already done enough. He hadn't personally made any kills, perhaps, but he'd made – and broken – several alliances, and his actions had led other tributes to their deaths. That had to count for something.

Delvin clenched his fists. _Enough_. The more time he wasted debating the idea, the less sleep he was likely to get. Silently, he took a few deep breaths, trying to focus on the sound of the rain. Trying to will his body to relax. Trying to sleep.

And, to his surprise, sleep came easily.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

The light was easy to follow.

Naella clutched her screwdrivers as she and Jaime made their way through the jungle. She had been worried, when dawn had started to creep over the sky, that it would be harder to follow the beam of light in front of them. And it was a bit harder to make out, certainly, but still clear enough.

Clear enough for them to follow.

But follow until they found what? At least one tribute, certainly, but which one? Jaime had seemed fairly certain that it would be the boy from Seven, since Septimus' group had been heading farther inland, and Brevin was with the other group of tributes. But it had been days since they had seen either Septimus or Brevin. They had no way of knowing _where _they would be by now.

She wasn't sure which to hope for, either.

The boy from Seven, certainly, would be the easiest kill. But not particularly impressive. How he had managed to last this long, Naella wasn't sure. Maybe he had found the building with the light fairly early on, and had been there this whole time, hiding. On the other hand, there had been a body on the screen at the lighthouse. And he _had _been holding a bloody knife.

So however young and inept he appeared, they already knew he was a killer. And he had a weapon. Which meant they would have to be careful.

The same, of course, was true for Brevin. Whether or not he had any kills, they had no way of knowing, but he was trained. They had initially accepted him into their group, after all. And he'd earned a nine in training.

Training. That seemed so long ago. So long ago that the six of them had been roaming the training area together. What would happen if it _was _Brevin up ahead? Would they be expected to treat him as an ally?

Then again, treating him like an ally didn't really say much. They'd already killed two of their allies. Why should Brevin be any different than Auster or Inviticus?

And what about the last option – Septimus' three allies? Septimus was gone, as was Liana, but that didn't make them any less dangerous – especially if they'd managed to find some actual weapons. So far, the only weapons Naella and Jaime had were the tools they'd found in the hovercraft. If the other group had _real _weapons, was that really a fight they could expect to win?

"Look!" Jaime's voice shook Naella from her thoughts. There was no point, really, in worrying about who they might find – not now that they were here. Naella looked where Jaime was pointing. The beam of light was coming from a hole in the ground – a hole that had probably, at one point, been covered by the hatch door that lay open beside it. A rope dangled down into the hole – probably how the tributes had gotten down there.

So it wasn't the greenhouse. And it wasn't the walled building that Brevin was in. That meant Jaime had been right, after all. The boy from Seven was somewhere down in that hole.

Now they just needed to flush him out.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

The Gamemakers were flushing them out.

Melody rubbed her eyes as Philus shook her awake, pointing frantically at the shore. Or, at least, where the shore used to be. The water level had crept up during the night, and was now only a few feet from where they had stopped to rest. Melody gave Baylor a shake, and he woke up immediately. Had he even been asleep? "What is it?"

"That." Melody pointed at the water. It didn't take Baylor long to register what it meant. The Gamemakers wanted them to leave. To head uphill. But were they simply trying to get them moving? Or was there another reason?

Was there someone on the other side of the hill?

Melody shook her head. That didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered was getting away from the water. She couldn't swim, and she was pretty sure Baylor and Philus couldn't, either. Their only choice was to leave.

As quickly as they could, the three of them started up the hill.

But 'as quickly as they could' wasn't particularly quickly. The path was slippery from the rain, but it wasn't just that. She was tired. They were all tired. Hungry. Wet and cold. For days, she'd only eaten what she'd managed to find in the forest – a few berries here and there, a few roots. She'd hoped that might change with Baylor's arrival, since the sponsors had seemed to be favoring him. But, so far, they had sent nothing.

Suddenly, Baylor gave a cry, toppling forward and landing face-first in a pile of mud. Melody hurried to her ally's side, helping him up, but, as she did, something slipped out of Baylor's pocket. His compass. Baylor scooped it up again, ready to resume their flight, but Melody pointed. "Look!"

Baylor glanced down at the compass. "What is it?"

"The needle. You said it was pointing towards me before – and that's how you found me, right? But look. I'm here." She took a few steps back. "Look where it's pointing."

Baylor cocked an eyebrow. "Uphill. Maybe that's where the Gamemakers want us to go next."

Philus shook his head emphatically, tugging on Melody's sleeve. He made a few gestures with his hands, ending with his hands around his neck in a choking position. Melody nodded, understanding. "What if they're leading us into a trap?"

Baylor thought it over for a moment. "Maybe they are. Or maybe they're trying to show us something. We're one of the larger groups left. If they're trying to lead us somewhere specific … Maybe it's not a trap. Maybe it's a gift."

Melody shifted uneasily. "A gift?" If it were a gift, they could have just sent another parachute.

"An opportunity," Baylor clarified. "What if they aren't leading us to another tribute because they want the other tribute to kill _us_? What if they're leading us there to kill _them_?"

Melody swallowed hard. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse. But she also knew she couldn't let that show. She couldn't afford to look hesitant. Baylor already had a kill to his name, after all. If it started to look like she couldn't measure up…

Melody nodded. "Then what are we waiting for?" She nodded towards the top of the hill. "Let's go."

Baylor looked surprised by her sudden agreement, but not as surprised as Philus, who looked like he was about to run. Melody almost wished he would. If he simply took off, he would make himself a target. And if the Gamemakers and the other tributes were busy targeting him…

_Stop it._

Melody grasped Philus by the hand, smiling. "Come on. You'll be fine. Let's go." She couldn't let him run away. Not now. Not when it would mean his death. But death could also be waiting for him up ahead.

Would this really be any better?

* * *

**Kit Rawlins  
****District Eight Mentor**

At least it was better than turning on each other.

Kit slid a little closer to Nicodemus as the pair watched the screen together. Baylor, Melody, and Philus were still headed uphill – directly towards the spot where Delvin had finally decided to rest a little more than an hour earlier. From the looks of things, he was still sleeping soundly.

But would that still be true when Baylor and his allies reached him?

Kit glanced over at Nicodemus, who was watching the screen just as silently. There was nothing to say, really. Either Delvin would wake up or he wouldn't. Either Baylor and his allies would be able to kill him, or…

Or he would kill them. Those were the only options, really. There was no middle ground. There was no scenario where all four tributes came out of this alive. Kit shook his head, wishing there was something he could do. Some way they could all survive.

But there wasn't. He had tried. And failed. And the tributes last year had tried and failed, as well. He wasn't about to make the same mistake again.

"Sometimes there's nothing you can do," Nicodemus said with a sigh.

Kit cocked an eyebrow. There must be _something _Nicodemus could do. After all, it wouldn't take much to wake Delvin. Any sort of gift would do – the pinging noise from the parachute would probably be enough to rouse him, alert him to the danger.

Nicodemus shook his head, as if reading Kit's unasked question in his face. "No, I'm afraid I haven't had any luck with the sponsors. Not that it's the tributes' fault, mind you. It's who the sponsors have to deal with in order to send them something. I'm not exactly the most popular person in the Capitol right now."

Kit shook his head, pointing to himself. He wasn't exactly at the top of the Capitol's "favorite Victors" list at the moment, either.

Nicodemus smiled good-naturedly. "True, they probably wouldn't exactly be lining up to shake your hand, either. But Carolina and Lander … well, they've been among the Capitol's favorite non-Career Victors for years, and even more so since they finally tied the knot. What you did wasn't enough to erase that. They managed to send Baylor that compass on the very first day."

Kit nodded. That was certainly true. But Nicodemus wasn't District Six's only Victor. That much, he was sure of. But he couldn't quite remember who the other one was. He glanced around the room, searching for whoever was supposed to be helping Nicodemus.

Nicodemus nodded to a couch in the corner, where two men were passed out, an assortment of drinks scattered around them. "Vernon's not exactly the most popular with sponsors, either." Nicodemus shrugged, as if none of that was Vernon's fault. "Mind you, he used to be. Before his son, Luke, died in the Games, he was … different. The Capitol loved him because he'd managed to surprise them. Joined up with the Careers during training, then immediately turned on them in the bloodbath. Caught them completely off-guard.

"That was his specialty, apparently – surprises. Figuring out exactly what the audience or the other tributes thought he would do next, and then doing the exact opposite. And it worked. It got him out of his Games alive. But not without cost. We're all killers, and we all have to deal with that. And we do it in different ways. Some of us deal with it by training others, helping them to avoid the mistakes we made. Some of us shut people out completely – and it takes us a while to open up again. Some of us cope by trying to make a positive impact on our district – whatever that looks like.

"Vernon was one of those. He tried to be a force for good in District Six. He took in three boys off the streets, adopted them, taught them a trade. He saw it as a way to make up for what he'd done during the Games. He never thought – never imagined – that one of them would end up being reaped.

"Luke's death … it broke him. His drinking drove his other two sons away. He withdrew from everything and everyone, because the last time he tried to make a difference, it went so completely, horribly wrong."

Kit looked away. Nicodemus might have been talking about Vernon, but he might as well have said Kit's own name. He'd been shutting people out since last year's Games, since his attempt to make things right during his Victory Tour had brought only pain.

"I didn't know any of this when I met him, of course," Nicodemus continued. "I wasn't worried about how he felt, what he had lost. I was a tribute. All I knew was that it was Vernon's job to help get me out of the Games alive, and that he didn't seem the least bit interested in lifting a finger to help me. For a long time, I resented him – until I learned what he'd lost." He shook his head. "The Games take their toll on all of us. _All _of us. Even the most hardened, the most confident, the most well-prepared. In the end, we're all broken – just in different ways."

Kit nodded a little as Baylor and his allies continued to make their way up the slope. Maybe Nicodemus' words couldn't fix everything – the Games, the Capitol, the horrors of last year. But, for a moment, Kit felt a little less broken. A little less alone.

And maybe that was enough.

* * *

"_I think you're a lot stronger than you know … and I'm going to prove it to you."_


	44. Time to Start

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games isn't mine.

**Note: **Results of the "final five" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who you think the Victor will be. Please note that this is not (necessarily) the same as who you _want _the Victor to be. (That'll be the next poll.) Also, please note that this will have absolutely no effect on who the Victor is; that's been decided for quite a while. I'm just curious. As usual, **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

Also, a shout-out to RandomTeddyBear, who's heading up a 24-author collaboration story and looking for more authors. If you're interested, head on over to his profile and check out the application questionnaire in the first chapter of the story. The application process is a bit more complex than most, but only because they want to make sure they're getting authors who will actually see this through to the end. As someone who's been part of a half-dozen failed collabs, I understand wholeheartedly.

Also, friendly reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, has an open SYOT, so send some tributes her way.

* * *

**Day Four  
****Time to Start**

* * *

**Harriet Bard  
****District Two Mentor**

At least they weren't making the same mistake Beckett had.

Harriet nodded as Naella and Jaime patiently examined the opening in the ground. Naella pulled the rope up to see how long it was. Jaime dropped a few sticks down in an attempt to measure how far the drop was. It didn't take them long to figure out that the rope wouldn't reach all the way to the bottom.

Harriet smiled a little. She had taught Naella well. Survival wasn't always about who was the strongest or the quickest or the best fighter. Sometimes, survival was determined by who took the time to stop and think a situation through and who plunged in head-first without having all the information they needed.

Balthasar chuckled a little. "I think they've figured it out."

Harriet cocked an eyebrow. "Figured what out? That the rope won't get them all the way down? Or that Domingo's waiting for them right at the bottom?"

Balthasar shrugged. "Both – and something else. Think it through. What's wrong with the rooms down there?"

Harriet glanced at the screens again. One of them showed Naella and Jaime, but a second showed Domingo, pacing around near the entrance to the tunnel. He had figured out that they were up there, of course. If the rope disappearing hadn't given it away, the sticks dropping had. But there was nowhere else for him to go. If he fled to one of the other rooms, they would find him quickly enough. Better to stay there and wait for the two Careers to climb down.

After all, it had worked once.

Jaime and Naella, though, weren't as hasty as Beckett had been. They knew Domingo was there, as well. They wouldn't be dropping blindly into his trap as Beckett had.

But what was the alternative?

Then she saw it. Harriet almost laughed out loud as she realized. "Of course."

Balthasar smiled. "Got it?"

Harriet nodded. It was so obvious, now that she thought about it. The door that led down into the earth had been open for days now.

So why hadn't the rooms flooded?

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

"Why hasn't it flooded?"

Jaime glanced up from where she knelt, peering down the hole into the ground. "What?"

Naella shook her head and repeated the question. "Why hasn't it flooded? The tunnel, the hole, the rooms – whatever's down there. Who knows how long this door's been open? The sticks we dropped down – it didn't sound like they landed in much more than a puddle. And what we saw on the screens – Did it look like the rooms down there were flooding?"

Jaime glanced back down. Naella was right. With the constant downpour, the rooms should have had a good layer of water on the floor, at least. But they didn't. There was only one good explanation for that. "The water must be going somewhere."

Naella nodded. "Exactly. And if it can get out, we can get in."

Jaime cocked an eyebrow. That was a bit of a leap. Even if the water was draining somewhere, there was no guarantee that there would be an entrance large enough for them. "What if he comes out this way while we're busy looking for another entrance?"

Naella shrugged, yanked up the rope, and closed the door. "Now he won't."

"Fair enough," Jaime conceded. "Any idea where we should start looking for this other entrance?"

Naella glanced around. "Unless it's being pumped through some sort of system artificially, the water would naturally flow downhill. So that would probably be a good place to start." She pointed downhill, back towards the shore.

"And what are we looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Naella admitted. "Anything that looks out of place – like the Gamemakers might have put it there to cover up a tunnel or some piping. Anything that doesn't quite fit."

_Like a bunch of high-tech screens in an old fashioned lighthouse? _She didn't say it out loud, though. Naella was right. Finding another entrance was their best bet. Certainly better than dropping right into the other boy's clutches. Especially when they knew he had a weapon of some sort.

Jaime fingered her pocketknife, flicking the blade in and out. How had _he _gotten a weapon? Had the sponsors sent him something? She and Naella only had what they'd managed to find in the hovercraft. How had a fourteen-year-old from District Seven gotten sponsors when they hadn't?

Or maybe he had taken it from the tribute he'd killed. But that wasn't exactly a more comforting thought. It meant that a little kid had already accomplished what they hadn't: He'd killed a stronger, better-armed opponent. Jaime shook her head. Even if she and Naella found and killed the younger boy, it wasn't a very impressive kill. Inviticus hadn't been armed – not really. Auster…

Auster. The bloodbath seemed so long ago. Auster hadn't been armed, either. And he certainly hadn't been expecting an attack. This time, their opponent was armed. He would be expecting them. And he had at least one kill under his belt. Jaime shook her head. He might be a little boy from Seven, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

And they couldn't afford to underestimate him.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He had hoped they would underestimate him.

Domingo paced back and forth, knife in hand, in the dark. Once the two girls had closed the hatch door, all the lights had gone out – both the beam that had been shooting up into the sky and the lights down the hall. He was left in complete darkness, all because they hadn't made the same mistake as the other boy.

Domingo shook his head. He should have known he couldn't get that lucky twice. The audience would want something different. Something new. If the girls had simply dropped into his lap – and if he had simply killed them as he had the other boy – where was the excitement in that?

But where was the excitement in them simply closing the door on him and leaving him here? Where was the excitement in watching him pace around in the dark, waiting for the lights to come back on, waiting until he ran out of food and water? He had enough to last quite a while, back in the main room. So what did the two girls hope to gain by shutting him in here?

Unless they had found another way in.

Domingo stopped short. He hadn't even thought of that – that there might be more than one entrance to the underground chamber. He had assumed the hatch door was the only entrance. Had the girls found another?

But if they had, then why hadn't they used it? Why bother with the hatch at all if they had found another way in? No, it was more likely that they hadn't found one yet. But they were hoping to. They were looking for one.

Which just meant he would have to find it first.

Domingo clutched his knife tightly. He wasn't likely to find anything in the darkness that now filled the tunnels. He would never be able to see the two girls coming if they did find a way in.

But did that mean they wouldn't see him, either?

Domingo took a few steps forward. Then a few more. Finally, his hand brushed the wall. "All right, then," he whispered, more for his own sake than for the cameras. "Come and get me."

But they didn't. There was nothing. No sound except the pounding of the rain on the hatch door. Maybe they simply weren't coming. Maybe there _wasn't _another entrance at all.

Could he really get that lucky?

Finally, Domingo sat down, leaning back against the wall. If they _were _coming, he would probably be able to hear them. Or maybe one of them would trip over him in the dark and save him the trouble of knocking them over. Maybe they would both fall on their own weapons and die.

Or maybe they would get frustrated with not being able to find another entrance and simply kill each other.

Domingo smiled a little. Probably not. More likely than not, he was dead. So dead that it was almost funny. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nowhere he could go. Nothing to do but wait and hope.

But maybe that would be enough.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

She had waited long enough.

Adelia sighed as she sat down to eat, knife in hand, hammer on the ground nearby. She had waited for them long enough. Myrah. Evander. By now, it was clear they weren't coming back.

Which meant she had to figure out what to do next.

The houses wouldn't be safe anymore. Not if she was alone. They had barely been safe when there were more of them. Maybe they had stayed there too long already. Maybe that was the real reason the Gamemakers had driven the other girl towards their hiding spot. Maybe they had known another confrontation – especially one that seemed unnecessary – would cause their alliance to split.

Adelia shook her head. Of all the scenarios she had imagined that might drive her alliance apart, this wasn't one she had anticipated. She had imagined them disagreeing over a course of action, perhaps, and splitting into two separate groups. Peacefully. Respectfully. Simply turning their backs on each other and walking in different directions.

She had never imagined her allies running away from her.

Maybe it didn't matter. Not really. Either way, they were gone. And she was alone. And tonight, maybe she would see their faces in the sky. Right now, she had to focus on making sure that they didn't see hers.

So lunch was the first step. Quickly, she ate as much as her stomach would hold, then stuffed as much food as she dared into her pockets. Not enough to slow her down, though. She would need to move quickly if she was going to get far enough away from the houses.

Far enough away for what, she wasn't sure. But, with her allies gone, she was certain – absolutely certain – that she needed to get away from the houses as soon as possible. They were too tempting a target. Too obvious of a hiding place. She needed to be somewhere safer.

Adelia shook her head. She might be able to find somewhere that was safer than the houses, but there was nowhere in the arena that was truly safe. She would never be completely safe – not until she made it home to District Eight.

Until. Adelia smiled a little. Somewhere along the line, _if_ had turned into _when_. There wasn't really a question in her mind now that she had what it took to get back home. It was only a matter of when and how it was going to happen.

There were only fifteen tributes left, after all, Adelia realized as she stuffed a few more carrots into her pockets. It was only the fourth day, and less than a third of the original number of tributes were left.

And she was one of them.

But she would have to do better than that. Final fifteen. Final eight. Final five. None of that mattered – not really. The thing that mattered – the _only _thing that mattered – was being the last one. Only one tribute was left standing, in the end. Only one tribute could go home.

And she meant for it to be her.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

He had never meant for this to happen.

Evander brushed the rain from his face as he stumbled forward through the trees. There was a part of him that had assumed that it would be easy. Easy to find Myrah. Easy to convince her to come back. Or that, if he couldn't find her, something would happen. Something that would force him to turn around and go back the other way. Back to the houses. Back to Adelia. Back to safety.

Except it wasn't safety. Not really. Especially not now that he had left Adelia on her own. She probably wouldn't _want _him back any more than the three of them had wanted Aleron to come back after he'd abandoned them.

Evander shook his head. It wasn't the same. He was chasing after an ally, trying to bring her back to safety. Aleron had run to save his own skin. There was a difference.

There had to be.

Exhausted, Evander stopped, bending over to catch his breath in the rain. He had to rest – just for a little while. He wasn't going to do Myrah any good if he was exhausted by the time he found her. And if he found someone else…

Evander clutched his knife. He didn't want to think about that. About what he might do if another tribute – or, worse, a group of tributes – found him now. He had always assumed that there was some safety in numbers, that tributes would be less likely to attack a larger alliance. But now that he was alone…

Maybe it didn't matter, in the end. The fact that there were six of them hadn't stopped two Careers from attacking their group. It was the arena itself that wasn't safe – not the fact that he was alone. The arena wasn't safe for a single tribute. It wasn't safe for an alliance. It wasn't safe for anyone.

Slowly, Evander straightened up again, his lungs and legs both aching. But, even as he did, he heard a gentle pinging noise. Startled, he looked up. Why would the sponsors be sending him something now? Why would they be sending _him _something at all?

Still, he smiled for the cameras as the package landed at his feet. It was small, wrapped in a grey cloth with a "3" embroidered on it. Slowly, Evander unwrapped his gift – a small compass with a "9" engraved on the back.

Nine.

District Nine.

A grin broke out on Evander's face. The gift could only mean one thing. Myrah was close. And the sponsors were trying to help him find her. Which meant that maybe she was looking for him. Maybe she would want to go back, after all.

Maybe everything could be all right again.

Evander held the compass as flat as he could. The needle swiveled for a moment before pointing in the direction he had been going, anyway. Evander grinned. So he had been right. Right about which way Myrah had gone. Right about her running instead of trying to take on the other girl alone. And she couldn't have gotten much farther than him – not in the short amount of time she'd had before he and Adelia had noticed she was gone.

Which meant he was close.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

They were getting closer.

Myrah glanced at Aleron as the pair drew closer and closer to the building in the distance, the beam of light still visible even in the daylight. Myrah nodded. It made sense that that would be where Aleron would want to go. He had been the first to find the houses, after all – the first to realize that some sort of shelter was nearby. It only made sense that he would want to find another safe place to rest.

But would it really be a safe place? The beams of light had appeared the night before. If there had been other tributes in the area, they could have made their way there by now. Maybe that was even where the boy from Four had gone – the one who had attacked them at the houses.

Myrah blinked the rain out of her eyes. It seemed so long ago that they had been attacked. So long ago that Jediah and Nadine had been killed. But it had only been two days – less, even. And here she was, heading for a building that could possibly be sheltering one of the tributes who had attacked them.

But only one, she reminded herself. There was only one of the two Careers left. The boy from Four would be alone. If she and Aleron could catch him off-guard…

No. No, she wasn't fooling anyone. Aleron had killed the girl from Ten, yes – and, if Myrah trusted her story, the girl from Seven, as well – but he had been quick to run from the Careers. No, Myrah had no doubt that, if the boy from Four was there, Aleron would be the first to suggest that they leave.

And he wouldn't be wrong. Maybe he hadn't been wrong in the first place. Maybe he'd had the right idea, that night at the houses. Maybe he had been right to leave, to save himself while he had the chance.

But did that mean she had been wrong to stay?

No. No, she didn't regret staying. But she also didn't regret leaving. Leaving Adelia. Leaving Evander. Aleron was right; she would have sacrificed herself for them. She almost had, when she had tried to save Jediah. So it was better to get as far away from them as possible.

Because she didn't _want _to sacrifice herself. Now that it came down to it – now that there were so few of them left, now that there was some distance between her and her allies – she didn't _want _to die for them. She didn't want to die at all.

She just wanted to go home.

And anything that brought her closer to that – anything that brought her one step closer to District Nine – was a good thing. Every cannon that sounded was a good thing. Every face in the sky was a reminder – a reminder that she was still alive. And, as long as she was still alive, there was a chance.

There was a chance she would live.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

Was there still a chance more tributes were coming?

Brevin paced around the building restlessly, trying to stay awake. Trying to convince himself not to sleep. He had slept for an hour – maybe two. There was no way to tell, really. But a cannon had woken him, and he hadn't been able to sleep after that.

There could still be more tributes coming, after all – drawn closer by the beam of light. If they had been farther away when the lights had come on, it might take them longer to get here. He couldn't afford to sleep now – not when they could be coming to find him.

Of course, the safest thing would be to leave. Leave and find another place to stay. Somewhere that wasn't emitting a beam of light that practically screamed, _Here I am! Come and get me! _And part of him was tempted to – to simply leave and find somewhere else. Somewhere new.

Maybe he had done enough here. Maybe the two tributes he had killed – the pair from Twelve – would be enough for now. But he still couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something else. Something he was missing. Something he was supposed to do.

Brevin shook his head. Whatever it was, it could wait a little while. A few minutes. Maybe an hour or two. If another tribute or two did come along, they wouldn't be able to get inside the building without climbing the walls. That would give him some time, at least, to be ready.

But to be ready with what? He was still unarmed, apart from the vines and the sticks he'd managed to find. The pair from Twelve, as far as he'd been able to tell, hadn't had any weapons with them. Nor had they had any useful supplies. Eventually, he would have to leave if he wanted to find food.

And he did. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal. Even when he'd had Kendall with him, the two of them had been relying on nuts and berries they'd found in order to get by. But the group of tributes at the houses – they had seemed well-fed. And they'd had weapons. If they had found knives in the houses, then maybe there would be food there, as well.

Maybe it was time to go back.

Brevin stretched a little. Maybe. But not just yet. He could wait until nightfall. Until the faces appeared in the sky. That would tell him how many of the tributes at the houses were left. Then, at least, he would know what he was facing.

Assuming they had even stayed there, of course. For all he knew, they had left once they had realized the houses were too tempting a target for an attack. They could be long gone by now. Whatever food and supplies they couldn't carry with them could be waiting for him in the houses even now.

Brevin shook his head, fingering a vine. He could wait. He would wait. He had been patient in the tunnels, waiting for the pair from Twelve to come along. And he could be patient now. He would wait until he had more information. Wait until he was sure he was ready.

Then he would make his move.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

They had made the right move.

Imalia smiled a little as Indira woke her to take the next watch. After days of being out in the rain, it almost felt strange to wake warm and dry, surrounded by flowers and vegetables. Indira smiled back. "Looks like coming here was a good idea, after all."

Imalia nodded. It certainly seemed so. In addition to her crowbar, they now had the two hand-held rakes they had taken from the other two girls, as well as their pair of helmets and enough food to last quite a while.

It almost seemed too easy.

Of course, nothing in the Games was ever that easy. Eventually, someone would find their greenhouse, or the Gamemakers would drive them elsewhere. But for now – for a little while, at least – they could relax and enjoy their good fortune.

They had certainly earned it.

Slowly, Imalia sat up, stretching her leg. It didn't seem to ache as much. Imalia glanced down. Something green lay beneath the bandages. Some sort of leaf, tucked between the cloth and her wound. "What's this?"

Indira smiled and nodded towards a leafy, potted plant with large purple flowers. "I would have woken you to ask if it was okay, but you were sound asleep, and I figured it wouldn't hurt."

Imalia ran her hand over her leg. "Where'd you learn how to do this?"

Indira shrugged. "They grow in District Ten. Mostly they're considered a weed. But ever since the Games last year, the Peacekeepers have grown a bit more … forceful … with their punishments. Suddenly everyone's interested in what plants can relieve pain or help heal injuries. It's not morphling, obviously, but it's better than nothing." She shrugged. "It's supposed to be good for calming nerves, too. If I had a fire, I could brew some tea, but—"

Imalia shook her head. "This is fine. Thank you."

Indira picked off a few more leaves. "Chew some of these, if you can, now that you're awake. It'll help."

Imalia hesitated. But only for a moment. If Indira meant to harm her, she could have done it by now. She could have done it when they had been pretending to fight to lure the other two girls in. She could have done it while Imalia was asleep. But she hadn't. Imalia had no reason not to trust her now – at least for a little while.

But not forever, she reminded herself as she took the leaves and started chewing. They were bitter, but, like the mixture on her leg, they did seem to be helping. Indira was helping her now. But later…

Imalia smiled a little. Indira obviously wasn't thinking about what would have to happen later. That, eventually, they could face each other in a fight, and a previous injury could mean the difference between life and death. Indira clearly wasn't worried about the possibility.

So why should she be?

Imalia stretched her leg as Indira lay down to sleep. She was a Career. She was trained to consider all the possibilities. Indira wasn't thinking beyond the next few hours. The next fight. She had simply wanted to help her friend. She wasn't worried about the fact that eventually that friend would be competition.

Her friend. Imalia swallowed hard. When had she started thinking of Indira as a friend? Imalia's gaze strayed to where the other girl lay, already sound asleep. Unconcerned. Convinced she had nothing to fear from Imalia. That her ally – her friend – wouldn't have it in her to kill her. Imalia clenched her fists.

What if she was right?

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

All of this felt wrong.

Philus struggled to keep up with Melody and Baylor as the three of them kept climbing. Part of him wanted to leave. To turn back. To run away from the two allies he barely knew. He'd had no trouble, after all, running away before. He had left Elani and Pan to die. He had saved himself then.

So why couldn't he run now?

Philus clenched his fists. This was different. They weren't being attacked. They were simply fleeing the rising water. And they _were _running – together. Which was exactly what he, Elani, and Pan would have done if he'd had time to warn them about the Careers. This was exactly what he'd wanted to do then. His allies were running away along with him.

So why did it still feel wrong?

Philus brushed the rain from his face. He still couldn't shake the feeling that this was a trap. Baylor was convinced the Gamemakers were leading them uphill so that they could find another tribute. Kill another tribute. But it was just as possible that they were being led uphill so that another tribute could kill _them_.

But leaving them … would that really do any good? If he ran, he would make himself a single target, instead of three of them together. The Gamemakers might lead the other tribute towards _him _instead of Baylor and Melody. And while he didn't want any other tributes finding the three of them, he _certainly _didn't want any tribute catching up with him while he was alone.

So the best solution was to not be alone. To stay with Melody and Baylor as long as he could.

But how long would that be? There were only fifteen tributes left. How long could the three of them stay together? How long could they protect each other? How long before the others began to see him not as an ally, but as a liability?

What if they already did?

Philus shook the thought from his head. If Melody and Baylor wanted him dead, they would have killed him by now. They'd certainly had the chance; there had been several times when he'd been sleeping, and one of them had been keeping watch. If they'd wanted to kill him, they could have done it – several times over.

But what if it wasn't a matter of wanting him dead? What if it was simply a matter of considering him expendable? If it came down to a choice between their lives and his, would they choose him?

Of course not. But that didn't necessarily mean that he couldn't trust them. After all, he wouldn't choose their lives over his own, either. He hadn't chosen Elani and Pan's lives, after all, over protecting himself – and he had known them better. He had only met Melody and Baylor a day or two ago.

Then again, he had only known Elani and Pan for a few days, as well, before the arena. They had been allies, yes. Friends, even. But would they ever have sacrificed themselves for him? Philus shook his head.

He would never know.

* * *

**Baylor Alanis, 14  
****District Eight**

He wished he knew where the Gamemakers were leading them.

Baylor glanced at his compass as the three of them stopped to catch their breaths. They were almost at the top of the hill, and the compass was still pointing straight ahead. Maybe someone was at the top of the hill – or maybe on the other side.

He just wished he knew who.

_Just think_. He'd been trying to work out who might be left, but he could barely remember whether any of his own district partners were left. Adelia, he was pretty sure, was still alive – unless one of the recent cannons had been hers. Ivira, Jediah, Louis, Gadget – they were all gone. So maybe Adelia – or one or two of her group.

But why would the compass be pointing towards them?

Melody. It had been pointing towards Melody before. So what if it was pointing towards one of _her _district partners now? They hadn't seen any faces from District Nine, so, unless some of the recent cannons had belonged to them, all of her district partners were still alive. Two of them had been with a group of Careers. The other was one of Adelia's allies.

Neither group was one he wanted to run into.

There were only three of them, after all – him, Melody, and Philus. They were all unarmed, except for a few branches they'd scooped up along the way. If the other group had any sort of weapons at all, they could all be rushing to their deaths.

Maybe that was what the Gamemakers wanted. After all, what had the three of them done? He'd killed a tribute, yes, but that had been days ago. He'd found Melody, yes, but they'd spent their time since then hiding and looking for food. Biding their time, maybe. But now it was time for them to do something.

Time for _him _to do something.

Just then, Melody stopped short. A hand on Baylor's shoulder held him back from letting his momentum simply carry him farther. "Look," Melody whispered, pointing.

Baylor looked. Up ahead, curled up under a tree, asleep, was another tribute. Only one. One of the older boys. District Six, maybe? Baylor couldn't quite see the number on his outfit, but he didn't dare venture any closer. Not yet.

It could be a trap. The boy could simply be pretending to sleep, to draw them in. But what if it wasn't? What if he was really asleep? They could walk away. Turn the other way and leave, or simply pass him by. The boy would never know they had been there.

But the Gamemakers would. The audience would. They would be expecting a fight. This was his chance. His chance to prove that he had what it took to kill – and not just in defense of his own life. He had to take the initiative.

And he had to do it before someone else did.

Not that Philus or even Melody looked ready to try anything. They were both looking at him. Waiting for him. Melody gripped one of the branches they had found, but, now that it came to it, her face was white, her hands trembling. She wasn't ready.

But he was. Quickly, Baylor glanced around, then chose a large, thick vine that lay nearby. If he could get it around the other boy's neck…

Yes. Yes, that was a better idea. Better than trying to hit him on the head with a stick hard enough to kill him in one blow. And if the boy woke up…

Slowly, Baylor crept closer and closer. He could do this. He had to do this. As quietly as he could, he reached down, ready to wrap the vine around the boy's neck.

Then the lightning flashed.

* * *

**Delvin Flynn, 18  
****District Six**

It wasn't the lightning that woke him.

Delvin's eyes flew open as a clap of thunder shook the arena. In an instant, he took it all in. A boy was standing beside him. Something was wrapped around his throat.

Something that was beginning to tighten.

Instinctively, Delvin grabbed at the boy. But the boy held on. Gasping for breath, Delvin wrapped his hands around the boy's wrists, prying his hands away, pulling him to the ground. His fist found the boy's head. Once. Twice. The third time, the boy went down, screaming for help, crying for his allies.

His allies.

But his allies were running. Delvin could see them now, fleeing for their lives. Running down the hill as fast as they could.

Running from him.

Delvin turned his attention back to the boy. The others could wait. First, he had to finish this. There were tears in the younger boy's eyes. Blood dripped down the side of his face. Delvin forced himself to look. "Your allies are gone," he growled. "And you know what?" He wrapped his hands around the boy's throat. "They're next."

Then he squeezed. As hard as he could. The younger boy's arms and legs flailed, but it did no good. Delvin was bigger. He was stronger. It was only a matter of time.

Soon, the thrashing stopped. The cannon sounded.

But his job wasn't over.

Quickly, Delvin got to his feet and took off down the hill. The others wouldn't get far. The Gamemakers wouldn't let them. Not once he had promised they would be next. The Gamemakers would want a fight.

Sure enough, he heard a scream in the distance. As he ran towards the sound, he could see the boy's two allies – an older girl and a younger boy – trapped between him and some sort of mutt. The mutt was large, white, and furry – a bear of some sort.

But the mutt wasn't his concern. It wasn't there to attack him. It was there to stop the two younger tributes from running. Delvin eyed the other two, deciding. There were two of them against one of him, but they didn't seem to be armed. And certainly if they were, the other boy would have gone after him with more than a vine.

Not that _he _was armed, either. Delvin took a few steps closer. The tributes had seen him, of course, but neither had made a move. They were waiting. Waiting for him to attack first.

Waiting for him to make the decision.

Whichever one he went after, the other could run. But would the bear let them? Or would the mutt simply go after anyone who tried to escape? Maybe. Maybe the possibility would be enough to convince the other one to stay. Or maybe if he attacked one, the other would be frightened enough to take their chances against the bear.

So which one looked more frightened?

Delvin glanced from one to the other. Both tributes had run when the other boy had called for them. But the girl was clenching her fists, at least trying to look brave, while the boy was shaking like a leaf. If he went after the girl, would the boy run, or would he simply stand there? He certainly didn't look like he would try to defend his ally.

And that was all Delvin needed.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

All she needed was for the boy to go after Philus, instead.

Melody clenched her fists, trying to look brave. Trying to look like she would put up more of a fight. Trying to make herself less of a target.

If the boy went after Philus, maybe she could run for it. Maybe the bear would let her go. Melody swallowed hard, meeting the other boy's gaze. She and Philus should have split up immediately after leaving Baylor. Then, at least, the bear would only have caught one of them.

Of course, there was no guarantee that there was only one bear. There may have been another one waiting, in case they split up. Maybe the Gamemakers wanted this fight. Maybe the Gamemakers wanted them to die.

Maybe there was no avoiding it.

The boy charged. Charged _her_. Melody stood her ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Philus running for it. A part of her hoped he could make it, but, just as the other boy reached her, a ferocious growl told her the bear hadn't been as generous as she'd hoped. There was no cannon, but there would probably be one soon.

But whose would come first?

The boy threw a punch, but Melody dodged. She ducked beneath the second punch, then dove for the boy's legs. It was a move that had always worked on her brothers, but the boy was paying attention. He sidestepped, then dealt a kick to her head before she could get back up. In an instant, he was on top of her.

And then he wasn't. He let go, gasping. Choking. Trying to breathe. Something was wrapped around his neck. An arm. Someone had jumped on the boys' back. Philus. Holding on with one hand while motioning for her to run with the other. He was bleeding – from where, she couldn't tell, but it must have been bad. Blood stained the other boy's shirt as Philus tightened his grip, holding on with both hands now, but still watching her, hoping she would run.

She wanted to run. More than anything, she wanted to run. But if the bear hadn't let Philus get away, why would it let her go? So, instead, she charged, punching the other boy in the stomach as Philus held on. The boy grabbed at her, but she took hold of one of his arms. Pulling him down.

Still, Philus held on. The other boy was starting to turn an odd shade of purple. Melody rolled out of the way as she dragged him down, then wrapped her hands around the boy's neck, above Philus' hands. Soon, the cannon sounded.

Only then did she get a good look at Philus. His jumpsuit was torn, and a ring of puncture wounds lined the right side of his chest, forming the shape of the bear's mouth. Blood trickled down the side of his face from marks that could only have been from the bear's claws. Another set of claw marks ran across his back.

A gentle pinging sound drew her attention away from her wounded ally. Melody looked up to see a parachute, dropping gently to the ground beside her. A "9" and an "11" were embroidered on the package, side by side. "Look, Philus!" she called, before remembering that he couldn't hear her. She snatched up the package and held it out to him.

Philus smiled weakly as she unwrapped the package, which held two small, jagged-edged knives. Then he closed his eyes.

But there was no cannon. He was still alive. Quickly, Melody used one of the knives to slice away some of the other boy's clothing, hastily bandaging Philus' wounds. She had just lost Baylor. She wasn't going to lose him, too.

Not yet.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He couldn't stop yet.

Thane gripped his hand rake tightly as he stumbled forward in the rain. It was getting darker again. Part of him was tempted to turn on the light on his helmet. But that might draw other tributes to him.

But maybe that would be a good thing. There had been five cannons since he'd left Sariya and Audra. Thirteen tributes left. Just thirteen. If there were any others in the area, chances were good that the Gamemakers would drive them together, anyway. At least if he turned his helmet on, he could make it look like it was his idea. Like he wanted to be found so that he could make a move.

Another branch in his face was all it took to convince him. He reached up and switched the light on. Immediately, everything grew brighter. Thane glanced around, but he couldn't see anyone.

Maybe there was no one to see. Maybe there wasn't anyone in the area, after all. He'd been walking for what felt like days; by now, he was far away from Audra and Sariya – if they were still alive. Whatever was left of Jarlan and Shale's alliance was probably far behind him, as well. Was there even anyone in this direction?

And who was left? There were thirteen of them left in the arena, but how many of those were large alliances? How many were tributes who would actually pose any sort of threat if they found him now?

Thane shook the thought from his head. Everyone in the arena was a threat. Everyone. No one who was left had made it this far by being harmless. There were thirteen of them now; maybe it didn't matter who they were. Older tributes or younger tributes. Careers or not. They would all have to die if he was going to get home.

So maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to make a move. He had left Sariya and Audra, but he couldn't afford to let it look like he had left because he was afraid. He had to look like he had left because they weren't being useful. They weren't doing anything. He had to look like he had left because he _wanted _to do something.

Because he wanted to kill.

Thane clutched his hand rake tightly. He didn't _want _to kill. He had never _wanted _to kill. But, soon, there would be no choice. The fact that he had made it this far without any blood on his hands was … something. Impressive? Disappointing? It was definitely something, but it was something that couldn't last much longer.

Suddenly, he heard something – up ahead. Some_one_. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of another tribute, running the other way. Running away from him. Without thinking, Thane took off after him. This was his chance.

And he couldn't afford to let it go to waste.

* * *

**Carolina Katzung  
****District Eight Mentor**

She couldn't let go of Kit.

Carolina held on as tightly as she could, as if by holding Kit close enough, she could protect him from what had happened. Baylor was dead. Baylor, who had been so kind to Kit, who had taken Kit as a mentor when she had asked him to without expecting anything in return.

And it wasn't just that he was dead. Despite their hopes, they had all known that Baylor's chances were slim. She had been prepared for him to die.

But the _way _he had died … alone, abandoned by his allies, left to face Delvin on his own. It wasn't fair. He had spent days searching for Melody, and she had left him. Philus' desertion was more understandable; he had only just met Baylor. But Melody…

Carolina gave Kit another squeeze. She would never say it out loud – especially not to Kit – but she understood why Melody had left. She had done the same thing – and worse – to her own ally, after all. They had been running from a mutt, and, realizing that one of them would have to die, Carolina had shoved her own ally down in the mud, leaving her for dead.

Carolina looked up as Lander wrapped his arms around both of them. Of all the tributes who had died during her own Games, Maeren's death still haunted her the most – even after so many years. There were some deaths that never left. Some moments that stayed with a person forever.

She had a feeling this would be one of those moments for Kit. The first tribute a mentor lost was usually the hardest. She'd had Lander with her, supporting her. And now they were both here for Kit. But, in the end, there was nothing they could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

Finally, Lander let go, and Carolina followed his lead. Kit untangled himself from their grasp, still crying. But tears were expected. Tears were normal.

And tears were a lot better than the alternative.

Quietly, Nicodemus wheeled himself over beside the three of them. "Kit, I…"

But he didn't get anything else out before Kit threw his arms around him, burying his face in Nicodemus' shirt. Nicodemus hesitated only a moment before returning the gesture, wrapping his crooked arms around the younger mentor.

Lander slid a hand into Carolina's. Losing a tribute was always hard, but at least Kit wasn't alone. And if, for whatever reason, he had chosen to latch onto Nicodemus – well, there were certainly worse choices. Despite everything that had happened, Nicodemus was stable. Certain. Willing to offer comfort to Kit even though he'd just lost the last of his own tributes.

Just then, Vernon staggered over. "Hey, Nicky, you might want to have a look at the screen."

Carolina looked up. On the screen, there was some sort of fire. Buildings – factories, it looked like. People with torches. People waving clubs.

_Damn. _Didn't people ever learn? Hadn't they learned _anything _from last year? Carolina glanced at Nicodemus, whose face had gone pale. Whatever was happening, he'd had no part in its instigation. But that hadn't stopped the Capitol from taking it out on him last time.

"District Six," Nicodemus whispered as the screen clicked off. "I'm sorry, Kit. I have to—"

But he didn't get any farther than that. His hands were shaking, and suddenly his whole body was rocking violently back and forth. Nicodemus' hands flew to his chest as he began gasping for air, but, after only a few seconds, he fell forward out of his chair. Lander caught him before he hit the floor, but his body had already gone completely limp.

"Nicodemus!" Kit shouted, his voice hoarse from tears and lack of use. Carolina turned, startled. But before the boy could say another word, the barkeeper, Eldred, had burst through the crowd of mentors that had gathered and scooped up Nicodemus from Lander's arms.

"Clear the way!" the bartender called, his voice suddenly commanding, urgent. "Harakuise, come with me. Now!" Carolina's gaze flew to the bar, where Harakuise cocked an eyebrow but proceeded to follow Eldred, who was still carrying Nicodemus, without question. Eldred raced out the front door, with Harakuise in tow.

Almost immediately, the door closed behind them. Carolina wrapped her arms around Kit once more. "It'll be all right. He'll be fine. It was probably just shock. Probably just what was happening in District Six…"

But, even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. Whatever had happened to Nicodemus, it had been perfectly timed to _look _like it had been brought on by the shock, but it wasn't. It was too much of a coincidence. It was too perfect – too perfect to be random chance.

Carolina glanced up at the screen, which now showed only Thane, who was still chasing after Evander. Nothing more from District Six. But why had it been showing in the first place? Why show a few images of a riot, only to cut them off? And why go after Nicodemus, only for Eldred and Harakuise try to save him?

What was happening?

* * *

"_Everyone gets a new life on this Island … Maybe it's time you start yours."_


	45. Betrayal

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll, if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

* * *

**Day Four  
****Betrayal**

* * *

**Nicodemus Ford  
****District Six Mentor**

"Nicodemus. Nicodemus, wake up."

Nicodemus didn't answer. He didn't want to wake up. He knew what was waiting for him if he did. Pain. Only pain. It would be so much easier not to face it. Just this once. Just this _one _time. That was all it would take. Just once. And it would all be over.

"Nicodemus." The voice was stronger this time. More urgent. That was okay. Whatever was going on in District Six, they could figure it out without him. He hadn't exactly been much help the last time. Let someone else worry about the district. He'd done his part long enough.

Wasn't it someone else's turn?

Just this once. So easy. _Just stop fighting it._

"Nicodemus." A different voice this time. Quieter. Younger. Kit. Kit was calling for him.

Nicodemus took a deep breath. Then another. Pain washed back over him as consciousness came flooding back. So much pain. But he could fight it. He _had _to fight it. Kit had lost so much. He had just lost Baylor. Nicodemus couldn't let him lose anyone else.

Even him.

Slowly, Nicodemus opened his eyes. Sure enough, Kit was sitting beside him, holding his hand. Nicodemus gave a squeeze, and Kit's face lit up. "Nicodemus! You're all right."

No. No, he wasn't all right. But he was alive. And, for now, that was good enough. Nicodemus managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Kit."

"Good work, Kit," came another voice.

Nicodemus looked up. Harakuise. Of course. Who else? Harakuise laid a hand on Kit's shoulder. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a little while? Nicodemus and I have some … business."

Kit glanced at Harakuise, then back at Nicodemus, wide-eyed. Nicodemus gave Kit's hand a gentle squeeze. "It's all right. I'll be fine. Harakuise isn't going to hurt me." That seemed to satisfy Kit, who turned and left, closing the door behind him. Nicodemus closed his eyes, letting the pain wash back over him. "Did I just lie to him?"

"No," Harakuise assured him. "Believe me, if I wanted you dead, you would be. Whoever poisoned you did a sloppy job. Very unprofessional. I'd say it was probably their first time."

Nicodemus chuckled a little. "You disapprove."

"I disapprove of loose ends. And I disapprove of anyone trying to assassinate a Victor without direct orders from the president."

Nicodemus nodded a little. "So this wasn't his idea."

"Do you think you'd be alive if it was?"

_Of course not. _"Then who…?"

"I don't know," Harakuise admitted. "And that bothers me."

Nicodemus opened his eyes. "But that's not the only thing, is it."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't drag Kit in here to wake me up just so I can help you solve my own attempted murder. There's something else going on. Something you need my help to fix – or you wouldn't be here. So what is it?"

"If you don't feel up to—"

"I haven't felt up to anything for the last year. Do you really think that's going to change in the next few hours? You came here for a reason. Now what is it? What do you need?"

Harakuise nodded and took a seat by Nicodemus' bed. "All right, then. I need your help. _We _need your help."

"Who's _we_?"

"The president. The Capitol. But, most, importantly, your district needs your help."

"With what? Harakuise, if the problem's as urgent as it sounds, you're not helping anyone by beating around the bush. Just tell me _what's going on_."

"The riots started just after Delvin's death. From what we can tell, the same people are behind each of them – a group of rebels, maybe forty or fifty of them. They've set fire to several buildings. Killed at least a half-dozen Peacekeepers and taken about twenty more hostage. Right now, they're holed up in a building on the edge of the district. They've rigged the building to explode if anyone goes near it. We could disable their defenses, but it would take time – and we don't know how much time we have. And if we start poking around, they might execute their hostages."

Nicodemus stared. None of this added up. "What do they want?"

Harakuise shook his head. "That's the strangest part. They haven't made any demands. They won't talk to us. That's why we need you."

"What makes you think they'll talk to me?"

"This." Harakuise held out a photo. Nicodemus took it, staring. It was a picture of a building – one of the factories, maybe. Painted on the front were two words.

_Remember Byron._

"Remember Byron," Nicodemus repeated.

"He's the boy who—"

"I know who Byron was!" Nicodemus snapped. "Do you? He's the five-year-old boy the Peacekeepers were about to beat half to death and leave to die in front of his family and friends! Probably some of the same Peacekeepers who are being held hostage right now. So why don't you tell me this, Harakuise – Why should I help you? Why should I help any of them? Did you ever consider that maybe whatever the rebels have planned for them is _exactly _what they deserve? That maybe they brought this on themselves? That maybe the Capitol brought this on them when they overreacted to what happened in the Games last year? Did you ever think that maybe this whole thing is your precious Capitol's fault?" He leaned back. "Go away."

"Nicodemus—"

"No. Just go. Or if you're going to kill me, then do it and get it over with. Stop wasting my time – and yours. You have a problem to fix, and I am _not _going to help." He shook his head.

"You're on your own."

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

He would have to do this alone.

Evander gasped for breath, barely avoiding colliding with another tree as he ran. The other boy – the boy from Nine – was quickly gaining on him. Sooner or later, he would have to turn and fight.

So why not sooner? Why not now, before he was exhausted from any more running? Maybe he should have simply stood his ground in the first place. He was armed, after all. The other boy didn't seem to have a weapon other than the hand rake he was clutching. Maybe it would be better to fight…

But he didn't _want _to fight. And not just because the other boy was older, probably a bit stronger, and clearly faster. He had already killed once, and the image of the little girl's face had never truly left his mind. Did he really want to add another face to that image?

Evander tightened his grip on his knife. He had to. He had to fight. That was what they were there for, after all. And if he didn't give them what they wanted, there was no telling what the Capitol would do to his family. His friends.

Unless he had a _reason _for not fighting.

_Think. _The compass had led him to the other boy. He had assumed the "9" would lead him to Myrah; clearly, the Gamemakers had something else in mind. What did he know about the boy? Evander was pretty sure he'd been allies with one of the groups of Careers. Another reason not to fight him. Where there was one Career, there were usually others.

But he hadn't seen anyone else. Did that mean the other boy was alone, too? Were his allies dead, or had he simply left them, like Evander had?

Evander clenched his jaw, turned, and stood, waiting. As the other boy approached, he raised his knife, but made no move to attack. "Wait," he insisted. "Just wait a moment."

To his relief, the other boy stopped. Maybe just to catch his breath. Maybe to assess the situation. Evander had a knife, after all; he had a gardening tool. It was in his best interest to wait, to listen, to try to find the right moment to attack.

Evander's mind raced, still trying to work out a reason not to fight that wouldn't sound rebellious. Because now that he could see the other boy, he wanted any reason he could find. The older boy didn't even seem winded from the run. With the advantage of a proper weapon, Evander knew, he might still win, but the chances of him coming away from the fight unharmed…

Evander gripped his knife tightly. With only thirteen tributes left, an injury – any injury – could mean the difference between life and death later, even if he won now. But what were his chances if he walked away from this fight without a good reason?

He just needed a good reason…

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He just needed a good reason.

Thane gripped his hand rake tightly. The other boy had made no move to attack him, but he was still holding his knife. Thane took a step forward, but, still, the other boy made no move. He had a weapon, but Thane had the physical advantage. The other boy was already tired from running. How long had he been running before Thane had found him?

It was a fight he might win. But was it a fight he could walk away from unharmed? Thane gripped his weapon tighter. He had survived this long without a kill, yes, but also without injury. If he got injured now, so close to the end of the Games…

But what was the alternative?

Maybe there was one. Maybe. But what could he offer the boy? The boy already had a weapon, so he probably had food. Maybe. But there didn't seem to be anything in the boy's pockets. Was it possible the knife was his only possession?

Thane kept his hand rake raised defensively. "I know where there's food." When the boy didn't say anything, he reached into his pocket and produced a tomato. He tossed it to the boy, who caught it, startled. "There's more where that came from."

The boy cocked an eyebrow, then asked the obvious question. "Why tell me?"

Thane shook his head. "Because it's guarded. The Careers came, and I ran. I only have what I could carry. But if we go back there together…"

For a moment, there was silence. It was a good lie. A believable lie. And one with just enough truth to it. The Careers – or, at least, two tributes who had been part of a Career group – were, as far as he knew, still at the greenhouse. And he had left them. No need to mention that they had been his allies. No need to mention that he had left not because he was afraid of them, but because they would have slowed him down, in the end.

The boy still wasn't convinced, though. Maybe he was smarter than he looked. "How many Careers?"

"Two. Two of them, two of us. And you're armed. It would be a fair fight."

"They're not armed?"

"Branches for clubs. They're certainly dangerous, but—"

"What are we waiting for?"

Thane cocked an eyebrow. Why was he suddenly so eager? "My alliance was attacked by Careers," the boy explained. "There were only two of them, but they killed two of my allies, and the rest … I don't know where they are anymore. So why not?" He lowered his knife. "Lead the way."

Thane nodded. How much of that story he could believe, he didn't know. But, then again, he was lying, too. He wasn't an idiot, of course. Neither of them could really trust each other. But if they could help each other, just for a little while…

Cautiously, Thane turned back towards the greenhouse, where Audra and Sariya were still waiting. Unless they'd had the sense to leave. Maybe they had. Maybe they'd left by now, and he and the other boy…

"I'm Thane, by the way," Thane offered, tucking his rake in his pocket, hoping the other boy would follow suit.

The boy hesitated, but then pocketed his knife. "Evander." He held out his hand.

And Thane shook it.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

It was nearly dark by the time Imalia shook her awake.

Indira rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was nearly dark _outside_, at least. But inside the greenhouse, the beam of light that was shooting up into the sky provided them with enough light to see by. Indira smiled a little, chose a carrot, and started eating. "So what's the plan?"

Imalia looked up, a little surprised. "The plan?"

Indira nodded. "There _is _a plan, I assume. Now that we've gotten some rest, what's next?" Dinner was obviously next, but what after that? She didn't particularly _want _to go back out in the rain, but she had no doubt that was what Imalia had planned. Imalia was the one, after all, who hadn't wanted to sit around in the hovercraft and do nothing before. Why would she want to sit around a greenhouse now?

Of course, she hadn't been injured then, but her leg seemed to be getting better. And she did seem well-rested. Indira smiled a little. They both were. The last few hours of sleep had been the best she'd had so far in the arena. It was nice to be dry again. Almost warm.

But they both knew it couldn't last. They wouldn't be able to stay here forever. Wasn't it better to leave on their own – before someone else found them and forced them out?

And, if they were going to leave, anyway, maybe it was better if she suggested it. If she looked like she was ready to take on some of the initiative, maybe that would impress the audience.

Not that they particularly needed anything from the sponsors at the moment. They had food. Shelter. Weapons. But it certainly couldn't hurt to have the audience's attention – especially with so few of them left.

At last, Imalia answered. "We should eat – keep up our strength. I think it'll be better to leave once it's dark. Once they show the faces in the sky, we'll have a better idea of who's left – and who we might find. If we can find one or two of them while they're sleeping, that would be easier. What do you think?"

Indira cocked an eyebrow. She couldn't remember Imalia asking for her input before. Had the fact that she'd helped with two kills managed to win her some of Imalia's respect?

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't matter what Imalia thought of her. They were competition, in the end. But, still, the fact that Imalia had asked for her opinion, that she placed some value on what Indira thought of the situation … it felt _good_.

"I think it's a good plan," Indira agreed. "But I think we should take some food with us – just in case it isn't as easy to find our way back here as it seems. Remember what happened to the cabin?"

Imalia nodded. "Good idea." She tucked a few vegetables in her pocket, along with some of the purple flowers Indira had been using to tend her wounds. Indira did the same, fingering the hand rake they had taken from one of the girls.

Now they just had to wait and see who was left.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

Now he would find out who was left.

Brevin settled back against the wall as the Captiol anthem sounded and the faces began to appear in the sky. The first belonged to one of the boys from Six. That meant some of the other Careers were left. The girls from One and Two, he was pretty sure. And Imalia.

And two of the boys from Three. They had been with the group at the houses, hadn't they? So they were still alive. But that didn't necessarily mean that they were still there. It had been two days since he and Kendall had attacked the houses. They'd had more than enough time to move somewhere else.

Two days. Was that really all it had been? Two days since Kendall had died. Two days since he'd run from the tributes at the houses. And only four days since the Games had begun.

It seemed so much longer.

Two of the girls from Seven were next. That left only the boy from their district, but he had been with the other group of tributes – the non-replacements. Chances were, he was nowhere nearby.

The next face belonged to one of the boys from Eight. That left one of the girls from Eight, he was pretty sure. And he was fairly certain she'd been in the group at the houses. How many of them were still alive?

It didn't quite seem fair. They were still alive, and Kendall was gone. Jarlan was gone. Auster and Mavina were gone. Zach and Liana, Inviticus and Septimus. So many Careers gone, and the alliance at the houses remained mostly untouched, aside from the ones Kendall had managed to kill.

It wasn't fair.

Brevin shook the thought from his head. Kendall would have had to die, anyway. The same was true of all the other Careers. Maybe it was better that most of them were already gone. His chances of facing any of them were much, much lower now. Imalia, Jaime, Naella, and him – they were the only Careers left.

Not bad odds.

The next face was one of the girls from Nine. But only one. The first tribute from Nine so far, he was pretty sure. So that meant the younger girl from Nine – the one who had been at the houses with the boys from Three and the girl from Eight – was still alive, too.

A boy and a girl from Ten were next, followed by the pair from Twelve. His own kills. Brevin nodded, satisfied. Nine faces in the sky, and he had killed two of them. Not bad.

But it could be better. Slowly, Brevin got to his feet. It was clear by now that no more tributes were coming towards the light. So he would have to go to them. Back to the houses to find food – and maybe pick up a kill or two. Then he could decide where to go from there.

Slowly, careful not to slip in the dark, Brevin used the vines to climb up the wall and down the other side. Gripping a stick tightly, he turned back towards the houses and set off.

As he left, the beam of light went out.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

The beam of light went out.

Aleron and Myrah crouched as low as they could as the boy from Four climbed down the wall and took off into the night. Once he was far enough away, Aleron broke into a grin. The boy had never even seen them. What a stroke of luck!

But they couldn't count on getting so lucky a second time. They had to get safely over the wall as quickly as they could. Aleron nodded to Myrah, who followed him to the wall. A series of vines led all the way to the top. So that was how the boy had climbed over. Maybe there were vines on the other side, too…

Before Aleron could say anything, Myrah had already started to climb. Not wanting to be shown up by his younger ally, Aleron quickly followed. The vines were slippery, but, finally, the pair made it to the top before stopping to catch their breaths.

Just then, a flash of lightning revealed what lay on the other side of the wall. It was definitely a building of some sort. In the center was a hole in the ground. Aleron grinned. Maybe it led to some sort of tunnel. Maybe there was a secret passage to some other part of the arena.

But first they had to get down. Another flash of lightning revealed that the other side of the wall was, indeed, covered with vines. Slowly, Aleron and Myrah made their way down the other side, dropping the last few feet in the rain. Aleron quickly got to his feet and made his way to the hole.

What he found, however, was a bit of a disappointment. There was a tunnel, but it was almost completely flooded with water. Myrah shrugged. "Oh, well. At least we know no one will be coming after us that way."

Aleron nodded. She had a point. Why should they be in a hurry to use the tunnel to go somewhere else, anyway? They had only just arrived. They could stay here for a little while. Surely it would be safe for a day or two…

Then again, he had thought the same thing about the houses. The group of them had only been there a few hours before the Careers had attacked.

But there were fewer tributes now. Fewer tributes who could find them here. And one had just run the other way. Chances were, no more would be coming for a while – especially since the beam of light had gone out.

So why did he still feel restless?

Maybe it was Myrah. He had assumed, after running away from the houses, that he would be on his own for the rest of the Games. But once she had found him again…

Aleron shook his head. Maybe he should have pushed her over the wall when he'd had the chance. She already knew better than to trust him. Would he even be able to trust her to keep watch without stabbing him in the back?

Aleron glanced up at Myrah, who showed no signs of wanting to sleep while he kept watch, either. So they would both stay awake. That would do for now. But, eventually, one of them would have to sleep. One of them would have to trust the other. But he certainly wasn't going to go first.

Not if he wanted to stay alive.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

They were still alive.

Adelia stared at the sky long after the faces had faded. She had assumed, with the amount of cannons since Myrah and Evander had left, that at least one of them was dead. Maybe both of them. But neither of their faces had appeared in the sky. Which meant they were still out there somewhere.

Adelia gripped her knife tightly as she continued on in the dark. Should she have waited a little longer? What if the two of them had returned to the houses, looking for her? What if they were back there right now? What if all she had to do was go back and find them?

No. No, she couldn't go back. Not now. She was on her own. Evander, Myrah, Aleron – they would have to figure things out for themselves. Right now, she had to focus on keeping herself alive.

At least food wasn't going to be a problem. She had taken enough from the houses to keep herself well-fed for a few days, at least. And, at the rate the Games were going…

Four days. Thirty-three tributes dead. Unless things slowed down considerably, the Games would be over before she could run out of food.

But was that good or bad?

Adelia shook her head. Maybe it wasn't either. Maybe it was like everything else in the Games. Having allies or not. A hot arena or a cold arena. An arena where supplies were plentiful or one where they were scarce. Maybe none of those things mattered in the end. Maybe it didn't matter how slowly – or how quickly – the Games went. The only thing that mattered were the tributes. In the end, despite whatever the Gamemakers might throw at them, they decided their own fate.

Aside from a few tributes whom the Gamemakers might specifically target, of course. She wasn't foolish enough to believe that she could outwit them completely, that she could make it out alive if they were determined to kill her. But the Gamemakers had no reason to target her – no more than they had to target anyone else. She wasn't a rebel. She'd proven she was willing to kill. And she'd been willing to leave her allies.

Maybe that was what the Gamemakers had been trying to do, in the end. Maybe they had simply meant to drive them apart, rather than kill them. After all, the rebels' strength the year before was in their loyalty to each other, their determination to stick together. Once the Gamemakers separated them, it hadn't taken long for one of them to cave.

So maybe that was what they wanted – to see who could survive on their own, without having to depend on their allies for support and protection. She had proven that she could lead. Now she had to prove that she could make it on her own.

And she meant to do just that.

* * *

**Jaime Gloire, 18  
****District One**

They had never meant to wander so far from the hatch.

Jaime shook her head. So far, their search for another entrance to the underground chamber had yielded nothing. Nothing but frustration. If there was another entrance somewhere, they would never be able to find it in the dark. Maybe their best course of action was simply to go back to the hatch.

But that would mean admitting defeat. Admitting that they had wasted all this time for nothing when they could have been _doing _something. "It has to be somewhere," Jaime muttered, giving a patch of dirt a kick. It wasn't fair. They knew there had to be another way in. Why couldn't the Gamemakers just point them in the right direction?

Naella, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered at all. She almost seemed to be enjoying her ally's frustration. Had she figured out something that Jaime hadn't? "I think it is," Naella nodded. "I think it's very close by. Listen."

Jaime tried. But she couldn't hear anything but the rain. "I don't hear it," she admitted.

Naella shook her head. "Down there." She knelt down, her ear pressed to the ground. "Listen carefully. You can hear the water."

Jaime knelt down. Pressed her ear to the ground. "I still don't—"

Her sentence was cut short by a sharp, stabbing pain in her neck. Jaime looked up, alarmed, to see Naella standing over her, her screwdriver covered in blood. Jaime reached blindly for her pocketknife, but Naella's boot came down hard against her wrist. Jaime screamed in pain, her voice garbled by the blood streaming from her neck. "Why?"

But she already knew. She already knew the answer. Maybe she had always known, and simply hadn't wanted to admit it to herself. Going after the boy from Seven was too easy – too easy for one of them. The Gamemakers wanted a good show. And they would get a better show out of a one-on-one fight.

Which meant that one of them had to go.

Jaime gasped, trying to breathe amid the blood that was filling her throat. She should have thought of it. She should have been the one to attack. But Naella had gotten there first. Jaime coughed, spitting blood all over Naella's boots. "Traitor."

But she knew better. Naella wasn't a traitor. No more than they had both been when they had attacked Auster, or even Inviticus. She wasn't a traitor. She was simply a tribute. She was simply trying to win.

And Jaime had simply lost.

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

Jaime had lost.

Naella turned her screwdriver over in her hands as the cannon sounded. It didn't quite seem real. Jaime was gone. Without a fight. Without a struggle. With barely a word. And at her hands.

It was almost too easy.

Naella shook her head as she dug through Jaime's pockets, retrieving both her wrench and her pocketknife. Now wasn't the time to get cocky. There was still another tribute nearby. Somewhere. And she still had to find a way to get to him.

That had been the point, after all. The two of them tracking down a little boy from Seven together – that _would _have been too easy. The Gamemakers wanted to even the odds a bit, and Naella had obliged. Maybe that meant they would reward her…

Sure enough, there was a whirring sound, and the ground began to shake. Naella took a step back as the ground in front of her opened to reveal a trap door. Once the shaking stopped, Naella took a step closer, peering over the edge. It looked less like a tunnel and more like an old sewer system, branching off in two direction from the entrance – one towards the hatch, the other towards the sea.

Slowly, Naella lowered herself into the tunnel. It was dark and wet and terribly cramped – barely large enough to crawl through – but it would be good enough. It would get her where she needed to go.

The Gamemakers would see to that.

That was their job, after all – getting tributes where they needed to go. Naella smiled a little for the cameras. She had been the only one in her alliance, in the end, who understood what the Gamemakers – and, more importantly, the audience – really wanted. They didn't want to see mere brute strength. They didn't want to see paranoid aggression – even if it was directed at the rebels. They wanted a Victor who was both strong _and_ clever. Someone who could play the Game both physically and intellectually.

Someone like her.

Naella grasped Jaime's pocketknife tighter as the tunnel narrowed. It had only been a matter of time. There were so few tributes left now. Eventually, Jaime had to go. Maybe it was better that it had happened like this. Without a fight. Without a fuss. And without any injury to herself.

That was the important thing, in the end – she was still uninjured. Maybe the audience would be disappointed that there hadn't been more of a fight, but there would be time for that later – against opponents who posed less of a threat. If blood was what they wanted, then she would give it to them soon enough.

She just had to make sure it wasn't her blood.

There was still a tribute ahead, after all. A tribute who had killed. A tribute with a weapon. Maybe the boy in the tunnel ahead was no Career, but he had been smart enough to outlast nearly two-thirds of the tributes. He hadn't done that by accident.

But neither had she.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

It wasn't an accident that they were both left.

Imalia glanced at Indira as the two of them left the greenhouse. Indira led the way out into the night, armed with one of the hand rakes they had taken from the girls and wearing one of their helmets. Imalia wore the other, carrying both a hand rake and her crowbar. She was struggling to keep up with Indira, but she didn't dare let it show.

She couldn't afford to look weak. Especially now. Now that there were only twelve of them left. If Indira wanted to lead for a while, that was fine. Maybe that was good. But she couldn't let the audience forget which one of them was a Career. Eventually, Indira would have to go.

But not yet. There were still twelve tributes left. Some of the others were Careers, too. And some might be in larger groups.

But not too many. There weren't very many large groups left. Jaime, Naella, and Brevin were still alive – but Brevin had been with the group of replacement tributes at the start of the Games. What were the chances that he had found Jaime and Naella?

What were the chances that he had even been looking for them – or they for him? She and Jarlan hadn't exactly spent any time looking for Mavina and Zach. Then again, either Brevin or the two girls could have found allies that she didn't know about – just as she had. Most of the other tributes would have no way of knowing she and Indira were allies.

So who else did that leave? Delvin was dead – not that she had ever really considered him an ally, anyway. One of the larger groups of outer-district tributes – a pair from Three, a pair from Eight, and girls from Nine and Six. How many of them were left? Three or four, maybe? But would they still be together, or would they have split apart by now?

All of Indira's district partners, she was fairly certain, were gone now – two of them within the last day. But Indira either wasn't bothered or was doing a fairly good job of hiding it. She hadn't shed a tear when their faces had appeared in the sky.

Maybe she was learning.

Imalia smiled a little as she followed Indira away from the greenhouse. Her ally wasn't the same squeamish girl who had stood by while Imalia had killed the pair of young tributes from Eleven. She was learning – and quickly. If she'd had the same training Imalia had, she might even have made a good Career.

But she had no training. And maybe that was a good thing. It would give Imalia an edge in a fight, if it ever came to that.

Imalia swallowed hard, her stomach churning at the thought. She hadn't hesitated when she'd asked Delvin to kill Jarlan. She hadn't thought twice about letting Shale go along with them to be killed – not really. So what made the thought of killing Indira different? Nothing at all.

Nothing except the fact that, this time, she wouldn't have Delvin around to do her dirty work for her. If the time came to kill Indira, she would have to do it herself. But could she?

Imalia clenched her crowbar tightly. She would. She would have to. Indira had to die – sooner or later – if she wanted to go home. It was unavoidable. It was inevitable.

Just not yet.

* * *

**Melody Anson, 15  
****District Nine**

She couldn't go to sleep yet.

Melody rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to keep them open. Just a little longer.

What, exactly, she was waiting for, she wasn't sure. Nothing was going to change in a few minutes. Or a few hours. She would still be sitting here, in the rain, watching Philus sleep. Hoping he wouldn't die – not yet.

Melody stretched a little. She didn't dare sleep. That had been the other boy's mistake, after all – the boy from Six. He had fallen asleep alone, and they had found him. She wasn't technically alone, of course, but she might as well be. Philus hadn't woken since the fight.

She was starting to think he might never wake up.

Melody fingered one of the knives the sponsors had sent. Would it be better to simply kill him now? Would that be more merciful? Maybe. Maybe it would, but, the longer she held the knife, the more certain she was that she wouldn't be able to do it. He looked so peaceful. The bandages did a good job of hiding just how badly he had been hurt.

But even if he did wake up, what was she supposed to do then? How could she ask him to keep watch, when he wouldn't be able to fend off any sort of attack even if another tribute _did_ come? Or what if a tribute came while _he _was asleep? Even if she woke him, how could she expect him to run? Should she just leave him?

Was that any worse than killing him herself?

Melody shook her head. Maybe there was a difference. Maybe there wasn't. Maybe it didn't make a difference either way. Maybe she simply owed it to him to keep him alive as long as possible. He had saved her life, after all. Even after being injured by the bear, he had attacked the other boy. He had tried to help her.

Would she have done the same for him?

Melody turned the knife over in her hands. No. No, she wouldn't have saved him. She wouldn't have risked her own life for his. And, most likely, she wouldn't be able to save him now. He was sleeping soundly now, but it was only a matter of time before his injuries got the better of him. She wouldn't be able to save him.

But that didn't mean she had to kill him.

Suddenly, Philus stirred a little. Melody was at his side in an instant. Philus looked up, dazed, as if not fully comprehending what had happened. He tried to sit up, but, immediately, a look of pain crossed his face. Melody eased him back down. "Easy. Take it easy. You were hurt. But you're going to be just fine."

Philus shook his head. Whether he hadn't quite been able to read her lips in the dark, or whether he had and was simply disagreeing, Melody wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't matter. He _wasn't _going to die. Not now. Not yet.

Slowly, carefully, Philus sat up a little. He eyed the two knives that lay at Melody's feet. Melody tensed. Could he guess what she had considered doing? That she had been thinking about simply killing him? Was it that obvious?

But then Philus held out one hand for the knives, pointing to himself with the other, then to his eyes, then pointing out to the forest. Melody nodded and handed him a knife. He was offering to keep watch. And she was too tired to argue. She would have to rest eventually. And if he saw something, at least he could shake her awake.

That was better than nothing.

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

This was better than nothing.

Philus fingered the knife Melody had given him as he stared out into the dark. Soon, Melody was asleep, her chest rising and falling peacefully. Easily. Without any pain or even discomfort.

It wasn't fair.

Philus ran his hand over the bandages that hid the wounds along his side and back. He had actually been awake for quite a while, but breathing was hard enough. Sitting up and keeping watch – that was harder. But he had to do this.

And keeping watch wasn't the only thing he had to do.

Philus swallowed hard, blinking the tears from his eyes as he watched his sleeping friend. It wasn't fair – what he was about to do. Melody had been kind to him. She'd accepted him as an ally when she'd had no reason to, without any thought of what he could offer in return. But it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before she decided that it would be more merciful to simply put him out of his misery.

Part of him was surprised that she hadn't tried already. She'd certainly had the chance. But that didn't mean that she hadn't considered it. Or that those thoughts wouldn't eventually get the better of her.

Wasn't it better to act now?

And if he did it – if he killed her now – maybe that would be enough. Enough to convince the Gamemakers that he was worth keeping around for a little while longer. Maybe even enough to convince a sponsor or two to send him something.

Because that was his only chance now – a blind hope that maybe someone in the audience would take pity on him, send him some medicine. He had no chance on his own – not with his injuries. And as long as he stayed with Melody, the sponsors would favor her over him.

That wasn't fair, of course. If he hadn't attacked the boy from Six, she would be dead. It was only because of him that she was alive in the first place. Killing her now … it would just even things out. He had saved her life.

Maybe he had every right to take it.

Philus gripped his knife tightly, creeping closer to where Melody still lay, undisturbed. Yes. Yes, that was it. He was simply correcting his mistake. He shouldn't have saved her. The knives the sponsors had sent the pair of them – they should have sent medicine instead. And they would, soon enough. Once he proved himself. Once he showed what he was capable of.

Philus raised his knife, took a deep breath, and brought it down hard. The knife pierced Melody's chest, and blood began to gush out. Melody's eyes snapped open. Her mouth was moving, but Philus didn't look. Couldn't look. He only stabbed again. And again. Finally, Melody's eyes closed. Her breathing stopped. He couldn't hear the cannon, but he knew.

It was over.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

It was over.

Domingo shook his head as he twirled the knife in his hands. It was all over – or, at least, as good as over. The time he had spent in the station below the hatch. The relative safety he had enjoyed. The feeling that maybe – just _maybe _– he had what it took to survive. All of that was gone.

It was as good as over. Maybe even his life was as good as over. How long had he been sitting here in the dark, waiting for the end? There had been four cannons since the girls had left to find another entrance. The anthem had come and gone, but, with the hatch closed, he hadn't been able to see the faces in the sky. He had no way of knowing who was gone … or who was left.

Domingo clenched his fists. Maybe the girls were dead. Maybe someone else had found them. Or maybe they had given up. Maybe they thought _he _was dead. After all, if he was dead, there was no reason for him to come down here.

Maybe…

Maybe that was it. Domingo took a deep breath. If the Careers _were _still alive, and if they _did _make their way down here, what if they found nothing? Or what if they found blood – or other evidence of a fight? Would they assume that he was dead and simply go on their way?

And maybe then he could follow them out. With the hatch closed, after all, he was trapped here – unless the Careers _did _manage to find a way in. Domingo stood up, clutching his knife tightly. His plan only worked if the girls found evidence of a fight. Which only worked if they could _see_.

"All right," Domingo whispered, hoping. "You can turn the lights back on now."

At first, nothing happened. But then, slowly, one after another, the lights flickered back on. Domingo smiled a little. A little bit of luck, at least. Maybe that meant the Gamemakers weren't done with him yet. Maybe he was still interesting enough.

Maybe they could tell he had a plan.

Quickly, Domingo made his way back to the main room, where he grabbed a spare jumpsuit. He hurried back to the spot directly beneath the hatch, where he had fought the boy from Ten. The body was gone, but the ground had been stained red with blood – blood that still lingered in the puddles on the floor. Domingo smiled, swirling the jumpsuit around in the puddles until it, too, was stained with blood.

With the help of his knife, Domingo quickly tore the jumpsuit to shreds. Maybe it would look like some sort of animal had attacked. Maybe the Careers would even assume it would attack again – and go back the way they had come. Maybe.

Domingo quickly ducked around the corner and pressed his back to the wall. That was a lot of maybes. But, right now, 'maybe' was all he had. Maybe the Careers would fall for his trick. Maybe he could follow them out. Maybe the Gamemakers would be impressed enough that they would simply let him go.

Maybe he could survive this, after all.

* * *

**Eldred Brand  
****Bartender**

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all.

Eldred turned the door handle slowly, still not sure why, exactly, he had offered to do this. Why he thought he could succeed where Harakuise had failed. Harakuise had much more experience, after all, with manipulating people to do things. He was just a secretary. Just a bartender. Just a father trying to provide for his family.

But maybe that was exactly what made him more qualified.

Clutching his folder of pictures tightly, Eldred opened the door. Nicodemus lay on a bed in the center of the room. For a moment, he appeared to be asleep, but, as Eldred took a few steps closer, Nicodemus opened his eyes.

"So you're not a bartender, after all."

It wasn't a question. Wasn't even an accusation, really. Just an acknowledgment that Eldred hadn't been all he had appeared to be. Eldred shook his head. "Was it that obvious?"

Nicodemus actually smiled a little. "If you don't mind my saying so … yes."

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Then why not say anything to the other Victors? Why not warn them that—"

"What? That they were being spied on? What difference would it make? We'd always assumed the bar was bugged, anyway. What's one more pair of listening ears?"

Eldred shook his head. "So you just … have nothing to hide, then?"

"Do I look like a man with secrets?"

_No. _No, he didn't. In fact, he didn't look like a man with much of anything. He looked like an open book – with half its pages torn out and the rest irreparably stained and tattered. Whatever fight he'd once had in him – whatever drive had led him to victory during his own Games – it was gone now.

But Eldred said none of that. Instead, he simply took a seat in the chair by Nicodemus' side. Nicodemus waited a moment, but, when Eldred didn't reply, finally asked the obvious. "Why are you here, Eldred?"

"I'm here to ask for your help."

Nicodemus closed his eyes. "Harakuise already tried."

Eldred smiled a little. "I know. But I thought I might be able to … present the situation a bit differently. And the president agreed."

"How you present the situation won't make one bit of difference. The president, the Peacekeepers, the Capitol – they got themselves into this mess. Why should I help them get out of it?"

"Because you're being manipulated."

"Clearly."

"But not by the Capitol. Think it through, Nicodemus. Who would benefit from your death? Not the Capitol – and certainly not President Grisom. If your death was going to help him, he would have killed you a year ago – or simply let you die, rather than going to all the trouble to save your life."

Nicodemus shook his head a little. "I'd worked out that much already. But then who?"

"The rebels."

Nicodemus chuckled a little. But, slowly, his laughter faded, and he opened his eyes. "You're serious."

"Very."

"Why would the rebels want me dead?"

Eldred leaned forward a little. "They don't _want _you dead, exactly. They just want the effect your death would have on the district. And they're willing to kill you to get it."

"What do you mean?"

"They need a martyr. Someone who stood up to the Capitol – and paid the price. Someone who was willing to give his life for a higher cause. And if you die, they have exactly what they want."

"I'm not a rebel."

"Of course not. But that won't stop them from painting you as one. What you did last year, you did out of mercy. But it won't be hard for them to paint it as an act of defiance. Rebellion. They could have used your death to fuel what support they've been able to muster. It may even have been a tipping point."

"But I'm not dead."

"Exactly. Someone didn't do their job. Or only did it halfway. Maybe someone assumed that an attempted murder would be as good as the real thing. Maybe they even hoped that an attempt on your life might sway you to their cause."

Nicodemus shook his head. "You keep saying _they_. Do you know? Do you know who tried to kill me?"

"No," Eldred admitted. "But we do know one thing. We know what will happen if they continue to believe they were successful." He handed Nicodemus the folder he was carrying.

Nicodemus hesitated for a moment, but then opened it. Eldred waited while Nicodemus flipped through the pictures. Images that had been taken in District Six.

Nicodemus' hands were shaking as he held out an image – a man's body strung up in a window, his arms and legs broken. The words _Remember Byron_ had been painted above the window, but across the man's chest, etched in his own blood, were two more words: _Remember Nicodemus_.

Nicodemus' voice was shaky. "This is—"

"One of the Peacekeepers who was taken hostage, yes," Eldred finished. "You told Harakuise that maybe this was exactly what they deserved. If you still believe that – if you believe that _anyone _deserves this – then, by all means, stay here. But if you're the man I think you are, then you won't stand for _anyone_ using your name to promote this kind of violence. Is this what Byron would want? Is this what _you _want?"

"Of course not. But—"

"But _nothing_, Nicodemus! Are you really so naïve that you think this will _end _once those Peacekeepers are dead? The Capitol will kill the rebels – and why? What are they really dying for, in the end? What stake do they have in all this? _Remember Byron. _Their deaths won't bring Byron back. Their deaths won't stop more people from dying. They will only spawn more unrest, more thirst for revenge, until their anger spills over once more, and more lives are destroyed."

"And you think I can stop it?"

"I don't know. But if you try – if _you_, of all people, call for them to stand down – I think most of them will think twice." He shook his head. "And what's the alternative? The president has a squad standing by, ready to level the building. That's one way to end this. But if you help us … maybe we can find another."

Nicodemus sifted through the pictures once more. Pictures of the twenty-three Peacekeepers who had been taken hostage. Pictures of their families. Their loved ones. Finally, he nodded, set the image of the building back on top of the pile, and handed the stack back to Eldred.

"All right," Nicodemus said quietly. "All right. But I want two things."

Eldred nodded. "Name them."

"Merciful deaths for the leaders of the rebels."

"Granted." Nicodemus had known better, of course, than to ask that their lives be spared. That was something the president would never have approved. But a quick, merciful death – surely that wouldn't be a problem. Not with President Grisom. "And the second thing?"

"A pardon for the person who tried to kill me."

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Why would you ask for something like that?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "Because I know who it was."

* * *

**Phoebe Trenton  
District Six Escort**

"How could you do this?"

Phoebe glared at Nicodemus, trembling. Her dress torn, her hands cuffed behind her back. Trying not to cry. Trying not to look as afraid as she felt. Trying to stand tall in front of the president and the man she had poisoned.

She wasn't sure which one she was more frightened of.

Phoebe clenched her fists. Nicodemus should be grateful. She was the one who had convinced the rebels that it wasn't necessary to kill him – only to make it _look _like the Capitol was trying to kill him.

That had been her mistake, of course. She had been too generous. Too kind. The Capitol would never have done the job halfway. They would have made sure that Nicodemus was dead. She had saved his life. But he couldn't see it.

"How could you do this?" she repeated. "I trusted you. I was kind to you. I—"

"You used me." Nicodemus' voice was thin and shaky. "Just like you used Byron. You took that boy's death and you manipulated it into a reason to start a rebellion."

"It _is _a reason to start a rebellion!"

"Phoebe—" Nicodemus nodded towards the president.

"I don't care! They're going to kill me, anyway!"

President Grisom shook his head. "No. We're not."

Phoebe stared, her head starting to spin. She had tried to kill a Victor. She had supported the rebellion, and had just said so in front of the President of Panem. And they _weren't _going to kill her?

"That was a condition of Nicodemus' cooperation," Grisom explained. "You were not to be harmed."

"Cooperation?" Phoebe turned on Nicodemus. "Cooperation with what?"

"With the situation in District Six," Grisom answered.

Nicodemus nodded. "I'm going to talk to the rebels. Persuade them to stand down. The leaders will be executed – quickly, mercifully – and the others will be permitted to return to their lives. This ends here, Phoebe. The cycle of violence ends _now_."

"But the Games…" How could he claim to be putting an end to the violence while the Games continued?

Nicodemus shook his head. "This was never about the Games. And if it ever was, it's grown far beyond that. This is about revenge. But where does it stop? The tributes rebel. The Peacekeepers can't execute their families, so they choose people at random. _Their _families kill the Peacekeepers responsible – and then a few more. The Capitol retaliates. The rebels do the same. When does it _end_?"

"When justice is satisfied."

"Justice?"

"For the districts. Surely you, of all people, can see it. We _need _another rebellion to right the wrongs that have been done."

"And then what?"

"What?"

Nicodemus smiled weakly. "After you've righted the wrongs of the world, after a government you trust is put in place, after Panem is free and those responsible for the oppression are punished … then what? What happens when the Capitol's children decide that it's the _districts _who are oppressing them? What happens when the sons and daughters of those killed on the other side of the rebellion decide that _they _want justice? It doesn't end, Phoebe – this wheel that you're trying to turn in the districts' favor. It doesn't stop rolling once it's been set in motion."

"I _know_. And it's a terrible price to pay, but I'm willing to pay it. The rebels are willing to pay it."

"But I'm not. And I'm willing to bet that most of them aren't, either. I'm willing to bet that they haven't thought it through. That most of them don't realize what they're really doing. That I can stop this."

Phoebe smiled a little. Still naïve. The rebels wouldn't back down – no matter what he said. What had been set in motion couldn't be stopped.

Phoebe shook her head. "And what about me?"

President Grisom took a step forward. "You'll be replaced as District Six's escort, obviously. Relocated to a small residence on the edge of the Capitol, where you can live out the rest of your life in peace – under our surveillance, of course."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"Whatever you like. Outside this room, only two people know that you were responsible for what happened to Nicodemus – and I trust their discretion. You can give whatever explanation you want for your resignation – within reason, of course."

Nicodemus nodded. "Find a job. Live your life. And stay out of this. It's not your fight."

Phoebe clenched her fists. He didn't understand. It _was _her fight. It had always been her fight. The struggle for justice – it was _everyone's _fight.

He had simply given up.

* * *

"_I know what it's like to feel joy... to feel pain, anger, fear... to experience betrayal. I know what it's like to lose someone you love."_


	46. Clean Up

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the Victor poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking who you _want _to see as the Victor. As usual, **read the chapter first**, as anyone who dies in this one won't be included in the poll.

Friendly reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, still has an open SYOT, so send some tributes her way.

* * *

**Day Five  
****Clean Up**

* * *

**President Silas Grisom**

"Are we ready?"

Silas glanced at Eldred, who was steadying the camera. Silas had to admit, the man was a quick study. He would have preferred to have an experienced cameraman, but he couldn't risk letting more people know what was going on in District Six. Not yet. Not until they'd managed to contain the damage. So it was just the four of them. Himself. Eldred. Harakuise. And Nicodemus.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Eldred nodded. "Nicodemus, are you sure you don't want a prep team to—"

Nicodemus shook his head weakly, his face pale. He had managed to sit up, and Eldred had moved him from the bed to his wheelchair, but he still looked like he might collapse at any moment. The doctors had assured Silas that he would eventually make a full recovery – from the poison, at least – but for now…

"No," Nicodemus insisted – the same answer as the last five times one of them had asked. "If they see anything – _anything _– that suggests I'm simply doing as I'm told, that I'm being manipulated by the Capitol, that could ruin everything. They need to realize that this is coming from _me_, or it means nothing."

He was right, of course. Silas took a step towards Harakuise and Eldred, beyond the view of the camera. "We're transmitting to every screen in the building," Harakuise explained. "If they answer – from anywhere – it'll appear on both of these." He gestured to a screen directly beside the camera, and another one in his hands. "We'll all be able to see them, but you're the only one they'll see, Nicodemus. Are you ready?"

"Absolutely not." Nicodemus smiled wryly. "But that's never stopped anything before. Let's do this."

Eldred nodded. "All right, then. You're live in five. Four." He held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

Nicodemus took a deep breath. "Hello? Is anybody there? This is Nicodemus Ford, calling with a message from—"

"We can hear you." Almost immediately – almost as if they'd been expecting the transmission – a face appeared on the screen. A man, perhaps in his thirties. Pale skin, average height and build, brown hair with a short beard. All in all, he didn't look particularly threatening. But everyone in the room knew better than to judge him by his appearance.

Nicodemus tensed a little. "I'm Nicodemus. What's your name?"

"My name isn't important. None of our names are important. History won't remember our names – but they _will _remember what we accomplish."

Nicodemus nodded a little. "And what is it you're going to accomplish?"

"Justice."

Justice again. Surely people realized by now that there was no such thing. One person's justice was a second person's oppression – and a third person's revenge. Maybe justice was meaningful – but only as an ideal. Something to strive towards – not something that would be accomplished in any of their lifetimes. Certainly not something worth all the death that had been dealt in its name.

Maybe it was a good thing Nicodemus was the one doing the talking, because he didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he wheeled a little closer to the camera. "Justice for your son, Mr. Gordon?"

The man on the screen raised his eyebrows, startled. "You recognized me?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "No. No, I don't believe we've ever met. But I knew your son – however briefly – and I know his eyes. You're Byron's father, or I've gone blind."

"You haven't gone blind," the man confirmed. "I'm terribly sorry for—"

"I know. I'm sorry, too – for all of it. But that's not why we're talking now. I have an offer for you – from the president."

Mr. Gordon's face darkened. "You're working for them now?"

"I'm working for peace, Mr. Gordon. I'm willing to work with them to get it – and they're willing to work with you. We all want the same thing."

Mr. Gordon shook his head. "No. No, I'm afraid we don't, Nicodemus."

"At least hear me out. Please. What do you have to lose?"

The man turned, perhaps consulting with the rest of his group. When he turned back to the screen, he nodded. "What's your offer?"

"You release the hostages – the ones you haven't killed – and surrender yourselves. Your leaders will be granted a quick execution, and the rest will be allowed to go free." He hesitated, well aware that all he was offering to Mr. Gordon – clearly one of the leaders – was death. "Think about the others. Think about their families. Do you really want—"

"Think about their _families_?" Mr. Gordon demanded. "Think about their families, when mine was destroyed by the people you want us to release? And we're just supposed to _trust _that if we release our hostages, the Capitol won't go back on their word? When has the Capitol's word ever been worth a damn?"

Nicodemus leaned forward a little. "It's not the Capitol's word. It's mine. For whatever my word is worth to you, I assure you, those who were simply following – those who were persuaded or coerced into joining you – will not be harmed."

Mr. Gordon hesitated, then gave some sort of signal to his group. "And how will you know the difference? How will you know which of us were followers – and which were the leaders?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "I guess I'll just have to trust you, too."

Mr. Gordon smiled a little. "Very well, then. I'm their leader."

Nicodemus nodded, but, before he could say anything, a woman took Mr. Gordon's place in front of the camera. "I'm their leader."

The next face belonged to a boy – no more than eighteen or nineteen. "I'm their leader."

One after another. Face after face. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Silas counted forty-seven by the time they had all passed in front of the screen. The last face belonged to a girl – no more than ten years old – with the same brown eyes as Mr. Gordon. "I'm their leader," she whispered before disappearing behind her father.

Mr. Gordon seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then set his jaw. "Well, I guess that settles it." He gave a nod to someone offscreen.

There was a loud boom. Something flashed. Then the screen went black. Nicodemus' gaze shot over to Harakuise, who quickly pressed a few buttons. Immediately, another image appeared on the screen. An outside view of the building – or, at least, where the building used to be. The whole building was engulfed in flames. Silas turned to Harakuise. "Did your operatives—"

Harakuise simply shook his head. "No. No, this was them. Maybe this was their plan all along. If they couldn't escape – all of them – then they would all become martyrs for their cause. Not a bad plan. If the district figures out—"

"Let me talk to them," Nicodemus interrupted. "District Six. Let me talk to them. Explain what happened. Please."

Silas hesitated. If they let Nicodemus broadcast a message to the whole district, he could say anything. Was this the chance he'd been waiting for? Had it all been an elaborate plan – maybe even involving Phoebe and the rest – to give him an audience for what he wanted to say now?

Silas turned to Eldred, who nodded quickly. Emphatically. Without any hesitation. That was good enough for Silas. "Do it," he agreed.

"Mr. President—" Harakuise began.

"Just do it."

Harakuise and Eldred flipped a few switches, then turned the camera back on. Eldred nodded to Nicodemus. "Whenever you're ready."

Nicodemus took a deep breath. "It's over. Whatever you think happened – whatever you might have heard was happening in our district – it's over now. It's done. The people responsible for the destruction that's been caused are gone. They've taken their own lives – and others, as well. But there will be no retaliation. There will be no revenge.

"Why? Because it has to stop somewhere. Eventually, when the blood and the fear and the destruction have become too great, we have to take a step back and think – _really _think – about what we're hoping to accomplish. Do we want justice? Do we want revenge? Or do we want something better? Something greater? Do we have what it takes to work _together _to bring about what we all really want: peace?

"It's easy to point fingers. It's easy to start laying blame. Maybe it's their fault. Maybe it's our fault. Maybe it's everyone's fault. Or maybe … maybe it doesn't even matter anymore. Maybe we've travelled so far down a road stained with blood that it doesn't even _matter _who started it. Maybe the question we have to ask is: Who will be the ones to end it?

"I ask you – no, I beg you – to let it be you. Whoever you are – citizens or Peacekeepers, loyalists or rebels – I'm pleading with you now to be the ones to end it. Be the people who stand up and say, _No. No, I'm not going to fight and die and kill for something I know I can never accomplish. No, I'm not going to give into the thirst for revenge. No. I'm better than that._

"You _are _better than that. All of you. _We_ are better than that. Stronger than that. We have a choice today. We can be a voice calling out for revenge, for blood, for war. Or we can be a voice that cries out for peace. The choice is mine. And it is yours. Make your choice."

Nicodemus nodded to Eldred, who switched off the camera. Immediately, Nicodemus slumped back in his chair. Eldred hurried to his side. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," Nicodemus assured him. "Do you think it worked?"

"We'll know soon enough," Harakuise reasoned. "Most of the more fanatic rebels were probably in that building. The ones who were left – I think what you said would be enough to persuade them."

"And the Peacekeepers—"

"Will follow their orders," Silas assured him. "They won't like it, but they'll do it. You did well, Nicodemus."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for my district. They've suffered enough because of the actions of a few who didn't stop to consider the consequences." He shook his head. "I won't let it happen again."

Silas nodded. "That's all I needed to hear."

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

She had everything she needed.

Naella gripped her knife tightly as the light at the end of the sewers grew brighter. She was closer now. So close. Whatever was waiting for her at the end of the tunnel, it wouldn't be long now.

Part of her wished Jaime was still by her side. Or even Inviticus or Auster, Brevin or Kendall. Maybe even Septimus. For the first time in the arena, she was really, truly alone.

She had thought she would prefer it that way. Her allies hadn't done much besides slow her down, after all. Even Jaime, who had certainly been useful, had been a bit of a burden. It had been her idea to turn on Inviticus during the bloodbath, which had cost them Auster. It had been her stupid idea to swim to the lighthouse. And she had been too trusting, in the end, to realize that only one of them was going to find the entrance to the tunnels.

So she'd had to go. But the silence, the stillness, wasn't as welcoming as Naella had always imagined it would be. It wasn't as comforting as she had thought. Even the running water did nothing to drown out the sense of emptiness in the tunnel. And emptiness, now that it came down to it, wasn't necessarily a good thing. It only meant that the danger was still ahead.

It had to be. There had been two cannons since the faces had appeared in the sky. But one of them had been Jaime's. That left one cannon. One other tribute who had died. What were the chances that it had been the boy who was down here?

But what if it was? What if she was chasing a tribute who was no longer alive? What would the Gamemakers do then? Would they flood the tunnel? Would they send in mutts? Naella clutched her knife tighter. If they were going to – if the boy really _was _dead – they would have done something by now.

Wouldn't they?

Naella clenched her teeth as she crawled forward. Closer and closer to the light. It wouldn't take long for her to find out. She was close now. So close.

The light grew brighter. Closer. If there _was _someone waiting for her, he would probably be standing right by the entrance. So she couldn't afford to be cautious. Couldn't afford to exit the tunnel slowly. She would have to rush in fighting. She didn't have the element of surprise – that much was certain. The boy – assuming he was still alive – would be expecting her.

So she would just have to expect him, too.

Naella took a deep breath, crawled forward as quickly as she could, and rolled out of the tunnel, knife drawn. But there was nothing. No attack. As she sprang to her feet, no one appeared to challenge her. Quickly, she glanced from side to side. There was nothing. No one. Nothing except a torn, blood-stained jumpsuit that lay at her feet. Naella gripped her knife, surveying the area as quickly but as thoroughly as she could.

Could the boy be dead, after all?

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

Could they really have fallen for it?

Domingo crouched as low as he could inside the closet, hoping. He could hear noises in the other room. Footsteps. But no voices. Were they trying to be quiet, hoping that he wouldn't notice they were there? Or was the reason they weren't talking because there was only one of them?

That would make things easier. Maybe fighting off one Career wasn't ideal, but it was much better than trying to fight off two at once. If the girl wasn't armed, if he could somehow catch her by surprise, was that a fight he could win?

Domingo clenched the scalpel tightly. What were the chances that a Career was still unarmed this far into the Games? What were the chances that there was really only one of them out there? What if they were simply trying to lure him out by making him _think _there was only one, making him _think _they were less of a threat? No. No, it was better to stick with the original plan: stay hidden, hope they left, and then, after he was sure it was safe, try to follow them.

_After he was sure it was safe_. But when would that be? He didn't want to wait so long that he would lose sight of them completely. Clearly, they had found another way in, which made them his best chance of finding a way _out_. And although he still had plenty of food and water, he couldn't stay down here forever. Eventually, he would have to leave.

So it might as well be now. He had stuffed some food into his pockets, in case he had to leave in a hurry. He just hoped he lived long enough to eat it.

Silence. One minute, then another, passed in silence. After a while, even the footsteps faded. Did that mean the Careers had left? Or were they waiting for him? Hoping that if they _pretended _to leave, he would show himself?

Domingo took a deep breath. Sooner or later, he would have to come out of hiding. Maybe they had left. Maybe he was safe. Maybe. Maybe…

'Maybe' would have to be enough for now. As quietly as he could, Domingo crawled out of the closet. Slowly, he got to his feet and peeked out into the main room. He took one step. Then another. Glancing around frantically, trying to catch any hint of movement.

Just then, he saw her. She had found the pantry, and was quickly stuffing her pockets. Domingo clenched his teeth. This was his chance. If she was distracted enough by the food, maybe he could sneak past her. Maybe.

But how had she gotten in?

Before he could figure it out, however, the girl turned. Grinning. A knife in her hand. "So there you are. That was a neat trick – slicing up a jumpsuit."

Domingo backed up a little, surprised. But he forced himself to smile. "Not a bad idea, huh?"

The girl took a step forward, fingering her knife. Toying with him. She knew there was nowhere for him to run. "Not bad – but not good enough. Any last words?"

Domingo backed up. Farther. Farther. _She's still talking. _He was stalling, but why was _she _talking? Was it all for show? Was she trying to impress the audience? Was she worried that he might have allies somewhere who would go after her as soon as she attacked him? Or was she afraid that a simple, easy kill wouldn't be enough to impress the audience? Domingo's mind raced. Last words.

That was it.

Domingo looked up, grinning, at the Career who was practically on top of him. Then he gave a little shrug and offered two words.

"Black smoke."

* * *

**Naella Sareen, 18  
****District Two**

"Black smoke."

Naella cocked an eyebrow, confused. Black smoke? What was that supposed to mean? Was the boy simply spouting nonsense, hoping it would get her to back off, or at least make her think twice? She had been trying to give the audience a little suspense, but enough was enough. They would have to make do with however much of a fight the boy managed to give her.

She lunged. The boy quickly dodged – and ran. But he couldn't run far. He only made it to the end of the passageway – nearly to the sewer tunnel – before she caught up to him. The boy turned, his back pressed against the wall, holding up his knife and trying not to shake.

So Naella dove for his legs, instead. The boy, who had expected her to strike higher, didn't have time to dodge as her pocketknife sliced across his thigh. He gave a loud cry, lashing out blindly with his own knife as he crumpled to the ground. Naella dodged his blow easily, and her second slice found his arm. Desperate, the boy made the mistake of throwing his own knife, hoping to hit her, but the throw was wide and clumsy. Naella dealt a kick to the boy's stomach, then knelt down, her knee pressing into his chest. The boy's eyes were wide as Naella raised her hand, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

But, just as she brought her arm down, there was an odd, mechanical noise – almost like some sort of ticking. Something struck her – something huge and black. Smoke, she realized as the creature lifted her into the air. It was a mutt made entirely of black smoke.

Up and up. Higher and higher. Naella gripped her knife tightly, instinctively doing the only thing she could think of – lashing out at the smoke.

Stupid, of course. It was only smoke. There was no reason to think that striking out at it would make it drop her. But it did. Only after it had released her, however, did Naella realize that was probably the _last _thing she wanted. Down she fell. Faster and faster, as the mutt continued to climb. Up. Up, towards the hatch door. The door opened, and the mutt disappeared into the night.

She could have been with it.

Instead, she tumbled down into the darkness. But instead of striking the ground, as she had expected, she hit water with a terrifying crack.

Pain. Pain, sharp as needles, flooded her body. It took her a moment to realize that she was underwater.

It took her even longer to realize that the boy was on top of her. With a knife. A knife that came down before she even had a chance to think. Naella reached out, fumbling, trying to find her own knife. But the impact of the water had swept it from her grasp. She had nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing except pain. Naella sputtered as her head disappeared beneath the water. It wasn't fair. Why had the Gamemakers helped _him_? What had he done to earn their favor? More likely than not, he was going to die, anyway, with the water quickly rising – rushing in from the sewers. Naella clung to that thought as the world quickly faded to black. If she was going to die down here, then at least he was, too.

She just hoped he couldn't swim.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He couldn't swim.

Domingo glanced around frantically as water continued to fill the tunnels. He couldn't quite tell where it was coming from, but, wherever it was, he couldn't escape that way. The water was coming in too quickly. That left only the hatch.

But how could he reach it?

Domingo tucked his knife in his pocket. It wasn't going to be any more use. The girl's cannon had sounded. She was already dead. But maybe she was the lucky one. Her death had been painful, to be sure, but it had been over rather quickly. Drowning, on the other hand…

The water was already up to his waist. It wouldn't be long. He had to think of something. Something.

_Think_.

But it was so hard to think. It was getting hard even to stand. Pain filled his leg where the girl's knife had sliced through his flesh. He could barely feel his left arm. Maybe it would be easier not to try. To just lie down and let it happen. Or even sitting. Sitting would be easier. Maybe he could think then…

Sitting.

Fighting the pain in his leg, Domingo waded back to the main room of the station. As quickly as he could, he grabbed a chair and, using it as a crutch most of the way, dragged it back to the entrance. The water had reached his chest. Covered the girl's body. But the chair – the chair was made of wood.

And any kid from District Seven knew that most wood would float.

Domingo clung tightly to the seat of the chair as the water began to rise. Higher. Higher. The water reached his neck, but the chair floated. Up. Up. Domingo's feet left the ground as the water continued to rise. The same way the smoke had gone. The same way the girl could have gone, if she had held on instead of fighting.

He held on.

Finally, just as Domingo was sure he couldn't hold on any longer, the water stopped rising, just at the edge of the hatch. Domingo took a deep breath and reached for the edge of the ground with one hand, pulling himself closer and closer. Finally, he managed to roll over onto dry ground.

Well, wet ground. But that was good enough for now. Domingo closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Blood stained his clothes, which were once again soaking wet. Everything hurt. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep for a week.

But he couldn't. Not here. Not out in the open. Slowly, Domingo dragged himself to a nearby tree. The same tree, he realized, that Calantha had been tied to, so long ago. The same tree where the girl from Three had tortured her. Where the black smoke had first saved his life.

And now it had saved him again.

No. No, Domingo realized as he leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. The smoke had given him a chance. It had evened the odds a bit. But it hadn't saved his life. He didn't owe his life to anyone – not the Gamemakers, not the audience, and certainly not a column of black smoke. They hadn't saved him. They hadn't killed the girl. They hadn't helped him escape drowning.

He had done that himself.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

How had he gotten himself into this mess?

Thane shook his head, gripping his hand rake as he and Evander made their way closer and closer to the light at the greenhouse. He had hoped to make it there sooner, but, somehow, it seemed farther on the way back. Maybe he had chased Evander farther away than he'd thought. Maybe it simply seemed farther now that he was tired. He hadn't slept, after all, since leaving Sariya and Audra.

Sariya and Audra. That was the problem, of course. He had told Evander that there were two Careers waiting at the greenhouse. He had expected – perhaps foolishly, he knew now – to find Sariya and Audra exactly where he had left them. They weren't Careers, of course, but they had been part of Septimus' alliance, as well. That might have been enough to satisfy Evander.

But now they were dead.

So who was at the greenhouse now? Whoever had killed Sariya and Audra might still be there. Did he really want to face a tribute – or an alliance – that had managed to kill two of his allies, both of whom had been armed as well as he was now? What if there really _were _Careers there? Were there any groups of Careers left?

And would they still be there?

Thane clutched his weapon tightly. There was no telling how long ago his allies had died – which cannons had been theirs. It could have been shortly after he'd left them. Or it could have been shortly before the faces had appeared.

He wasn't really sure which to hope for. If they had been killed earlier, then maybe whoever was responsible had left. Maybe there would be no one at the greenhouse when they arrived. But then what were they supposed to do? He and Evander had only allied in order to take down the 'Careers' and raid their supplies. Would the second part of that plan be enough to satisfy the audience?

Or would they want a fight?

Would Evander insist on waiting until the others came back? But what if they didn't? What if whoever had killed Sariya and Audra was gone for good? Would Evander end up turning on him? If so, then maybe it would be better to attack now, while Evander wouldn't expect it. It might be easy…

But he might still need him. If there _was _someone at the greenhouse, the audience would still expect a fight – a fight Thane might not be able to give them on his own. Whoever was there – if they _were _still there – had been able to overpower both Audra and Sariya. Maybe the girls weren't the best fighters in the arena, but there were two of them. Which meant there were probably at least two of their attackers.

Which meant he would need Evander.

Unless they had killed each other. That was the third possibility. Maybe Audra and Sariya had turned on each other when they had discovered that he was missing. A few days ago, he might not have thought it possible. But now, anything seemed likely. He had allied with a tribute from District Three in the hopes of taking down two of his former allies. He wasn't exactly in a position to judge them if they _had _attacked each other.

Thane ducked lower as he and Evander approached the greenhouse. He wasn't in a position to do much of _anything. _He couldn't attack Evander without risking a fight with stronger tributes – a fight he would have to face alone. He couldn't suggest they abandon their plan without drawing the boy's suspicion. He couldn't do anything but stick to the plan. He would just have to wait it out and hope.

But at least he wouldn't be waiting long.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

There wasn't anything to do but wait.

Evander ducked lower as he and Thane crept closer and closer to the building that he could now see was some sort of greenhouse. He had thought about running. About trying to escape. About asking Thane to call the whole plan off.

He didn't need food, after all. He didn't have much with him, but there was plenty of food back at the houses. All he had to do was go back there. But he couldn't. He had told Thane he wanted revenge against the Careers. The _audience _believed he wanted revenge against the Careers for what they had done to Jediah and Nadine.

And they had to keep believing it.

Because there was no other reason for what he had done. No other reason for choosing not to fight Thane, for agreeing to ally with him, instead. He couldn't simply walk away now – not without revealing the truth.

And the truth could kill him just as easily as whatever tributes were up ahead.

Because the truth, now that it came down to it, was that he simply didn't want to fight anymore. He didn't want to kill anyone else. And that was something the audience could never know.

Not being _able _to kill – that was one thing. A tribute who fought and lost – _that _they understood. A tribute who was outmatched, outwitted, or simply not lucky enough to win a fight. But one who chose not to kill, one who refused to kill or one who walked away from a fair fight, would be considered a rebel.

And that was something he couldn't afford.

Evander clenched his fists. He wasn't a rebel. He _wasn't_. But it wasn't enough for _him _to know that. He had to prove it to the audience. So he had to stay with Thane. He had to see the plan through.

He had to fight.

But as the pair of them approached the greenhouse, Thane slowed. "I don't see anyone. Do you?"

Evander shook his head. From where they stood, the greenhouse appeared to be empty. But it could be a trick. "Maybe they're sleeping," he offered.

Thane shook his head. "Or they're hiding – waiting for anyone who might stumble in."

Evander swallowed hard. He liked his own idea better – at least a little. If the tributes there were sleeping, then killing them would be easy. Quick. Merciful, even. Part of him felt terrible for thinking it, but being killed in their sleep – that was about as good as death got in the Games.

But there was just as good a chance that Thane was right – that they were simply waiting, hiding behind the plants, hoping for a tribute or two to stumble in. Tributes like them.

Evander glanced at Thane, hoping for some sign that he might back out. But there was no hesitation in the other boy's face. Thane simply shrugged.

"I guess we'll just have to see which one of us is right."

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

Neither of them was right.

Thane glanced around as he and Evander entered the greenhouse. He made a show of searching every place where a tribute might be hiding, but it was obvious from the moment they entered: the greenhouse was empty.

Except for the food, of course. Evander was already stuffing his pockets with all the vegetables he could carry, wolfing down a few bites in between handfuls. Was it all for show, or was he really that hungry? Thane stuffed a few extra vegetables in his pockets, but the truth was that he already had more than he would need for the next few days.

And, at the rate the Games were going, a few days were all they had.

Of course, a few minutes could be all he had if he didn't do something soon. He hadn't had a good reason to come back to the greenhouse – not if all they were going to do was raid supplies that, by now, it was clear no one was guarding. The audience would never be satisfied with two tributes allying to take down Careers that didn't exist, then parting ways peacefully after gathering a few vegetables. It wouldn't be long before the Gamemakers stepped in and did something.

So he would have to do something first.

"I'm going to stand guard – make sure no one's coming," Thane offered, heading for the door. Evander nodded casually, but Thane could see him watching out of the corner of his eye. The boy was as suspicious as Thane was.

Of course he was. Thane shook the thought from his head. No one made it this far in the Games simply by being trusting – or trustworthy. The boy was probably waiting for the right moment to turn on him. Thane kept Evander in his sight as he made his way out the door.

Part of him wanted to run. To simply leave, the way he had left Audra and Sariya. The Gamemakers hadn't stopped him then. Why should they care if he left now? What was the difference?

But there _was _a difference – and it wasn't simply the fact that there were fewer tributes left now. Audra and Sariya had been his allies. He hadn't been particularly close to either of them, but they had worked together for days. Sariya had been his district partner. And there had been two of them. The audience clearly understood that it had been safer to simply leave them than to attempt to fight them.

But Evander…

Evander wasn't a friend. Wasn't a district partner. And he had only been an ally because neither of them had wanted to fight while they were both clearly exhausted. But now…

They were still tired, to be sure. But they had been taking it slow, making sure they would be ready to attack when they arrived at the greenhouse. They had been ready – or, at least, as ready as they were ever going to be. The audience was expecting a fight.

And, one way or another, they would get one.

Thane clenched his fists, glancing around frantically. He had thought, for a moment, that he had heard something in the jungle. Maybe it was simply his imagination. Or maybe it was the Gamemakers. Maybe they were giving him a signal, warning him that it was time for him to make a move – before they did.

Thane nodded, reached down, and grabbed the biggest, thickest stick he could find. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Evander watching him. Trying to figure out what he was planning to do with a stick that he couldn't do with his hand rake. Thane saw Evander's eyes widen as he put the pieces together.

But it was too late.

* * *

**Evander Mercado, 16  
****District Three**

It was too late.

Evander braced himself as Thane struck the greenhouse wall with his stick. Once. Then twice. Evander raced for the door, hoping, but the third blow shattered the wall, sending glass spewing in every direction as the greenhouse came crashing down, knocking Evander off his feet as he ran.

_It shouldn't have done that. _That was the only thought in his mind as he lay there, gasping for breath, covered in shattered glass. The walls, the ceiling – they shouldn't have shattered like that. There was no way Thane could have hit the wall hard enough to cause that sort of collapse – not with a stick.

So it hadn't been Thane. The Gamemakers had a hand in it. Evander slowly rolled over, surveying the damage. He was bruised, and his jumpsuit was torn in several places, with blood seeping through where pieces of broken glass had struck him. But he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Then he saw Thane, racing towards him through the broken glass. Evander struggled to his feet, searching blindly for his knife. But he wasn't quick enough. Before he had time to find it, Thane's branch knocked him off his feet once more, sending him sprawling in a heap of glass shards. Evander cried out in pain as the branch came down against his head.

It wouldn't be long. Thane was armed. He wasn't. Unless…

As the stick came down again, Evander reached out blindly, his hand closing around a piece of glass. The stick struck just inches away from his head as he rolled out of the way, his shard of glass slicing into Thane's leg. Thane leapt away, startled, but quickly recovered, his boot coming down hard against Evander's neck.

Evander gasped, striking blindly with the only weapon he had. But it wasn't enough. Thane's hand came down, grasping his wrist, stopping him from thrashing. Evander could feel tears coming to his eyes. He had tried. He had done his best. But it hadn't been enough.

Or maybe it had.

Evander closed his eyes as the world around him began to grow dark. He had known from the start that his chances were slim. All along, he had wanted to live, but he had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wasn't enough just to want it. That wouldn't be enough to keep him alive.

But it was enough for his family.

He had fought. He had fought for his own life, and for his allies' lives. He had killed – and then tried to kill again. That would be enough, certainly – enough to erase any doubt in the audience's minds about his intentions. To convince them that he wasn't a rebel.

And he had made it to the fifth day of the Games. To the final ten tributes. That would be enough. That would be enough for his family.

It would have to be.

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

The houses had to be there.

Brevin glanced around, confused, as the cannon sounded. This was where the houses had been. He was sure of it. He could see the stream – or, at least, what had once been a stream. It was rising now, but not enough to be a real danger. Not yet. Not to a tribute from District Four. It was still perfectly safe, still surrounding the area where the houses had been.

So where were they?

Brevin flung his stick to the ground. It wasn't fair. Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. His allies were gone. His three kills had earned him nothing from the sponsors. And now that he had made his way back to what he had been sure was a stable food source, it was gone.

He was tired. Hungry. But, more than anything, angry. Angry at who, he wasn't sure. Maybe the tributes who had been in the houses, for keeping him away from the supplies the first time. Maybe the Gamemakers, for playing favorites. Maybe himself, for staying at the stone building. If he had left sooner, if he had gotten here sooner, would the houses still be here?

There was no way of knowing, Brevin realized as he picked up his stick, turning and heading into the darkness away from the houses. There was no way to tell what might have happened, if he had done things a little differently. Maybe he would have arrived, only to find both houses and tributes here. Maybe there would still have been a group of them. Maybe he would already be dead.

Or maybe he would be warm, and dry, and full. Brevin brushed the rain from his face as he plunged forward into the night. There had to be something else nearby, or the Gamemakers wouldn't have moved the houses. There had to be another tribute nearby. All he had to do was draw them out.

"Come on, then!" Brevin called over the rain. "I know you're here! Come and get me! Come _on_!"

On and on. Past trees and branches. Several times, he tripped over a rock or a root, but he kept going. Kept shouting. There had to be something nearby. There just _had _to be.

The sky was beginning to grow a little brighter. Brevin whirled around, looking. There had to be something. There had to be someone.

_Patience._

Brevin clenched his teeth. He had been patient long enough. He had been patient when Kendall had wanted to follow the girls from Six and Eight rather than attack them right away. He had been patient when he had decided to wait in the tunnels for tributes rather than venturing farther. He had been patient when he had decided to wait at the stone building for a little while rather than come back to the houses immediately.

And where had it gotten him? He was still cold. Still wet. Still hungry. He had no food. No weapons. No allies. Nothing but the stick in his hand. Somewhere out there, there were supplies, weapons, food. There were tributes to attack. He just had to find them. He had to keep looking. He couldn't afford to sit back and wait any longer.

He had been patient long enough.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

She just had to be patient.

Adelia crouched low behind a tree as the shouting continued. "Come and get me! I know you're out there! Where _are _you? Come _on _already!" Louder and louder. Closer and closer.

Part of her wanted to run. Whoever the tribute was, he was angry. Furious. She certainly didn't want to find any of that anger directed at her. Especially not if he had any sort of a weapon, or any allies nearby. He seemed to be alone, but it could be a trap. A trick to draw out any tributes who were nearby, lure them to their deaths.

But what if it wasn't?

Adelia clutched her knife tightly in one hand, her hammer in the other. What if it wasn't a trap? What if the tribute – whoever it was – was really as angry, as frustrated, as desperate as he sounded? What if it wasn't an act? What if he was really irrational enough to be shouting for any tribute in the area to hear?

Could she afford not to take advantage of that?

Adelia crouched lower behind the tree as the tribute's voice came closer and closer. She had a weapon. Several, in fact. In addition to her own knife and hammer, Jediah and Nadine's knives were tucked in her pocket. The other tribute might not even be armed. It could be an easy fight.

But it might not be.

What if the other tribute _was _armed? She certainly wouldn't have the element of surprise. He was practically announcing to the whole world that he was expecting an attack. What if he was ready for her?

But what if he wasn't?

What if…

Adelia clenched her fists. There was no choice. Not really. She and Evander had fought Ivira and her ally when the Careers had attacked the houses, but that had been days ago. It seemed like ages ago. What had she done since then? She, Evander, and Myrah had sat around in the houses, recovering. Myrah had left. Evander had left. She had left. That was all.

They had been patient. Maybe that was it. But the time for patience was over. The time for caution was over. Caution was useful, but it didn't win the Games. Eventually, she would have to take a chance.

And she wasn't going to get a better one than this.

Adelia nodded, her mind made up. "All right," she whispered, her voice drowned out by the rain. "I hear you. Just a little closer, and you'll get your wish. Just a little closer."

_Just a little closer._

Finally, she could see him. In the dim light and the rain, he was hard to make out, but he was clearly an older boy. Stronger. One of the replacement tributes, from his shaved head and grey jumpsuit. In fact, he looked almost like…

Then he turned, and she could see that she was right. The boy from Four. One of the Careers who had attacked them at the houses. One of the tributes who had been responsible for Nadine and Jediah's deaths.

This was perfect.

Adelia swallowed hard. Maybe the idea of fighting a Career wasn't _perfect_. But the audience – they might be on her side. A tribute trying to take revenge on a tribute who had killed her allies – they would like that. Never mind that it had been the girl from Four, not the boy, who had killed Jediah and Nadine. That wouldn't matter to them.

So why should it matter to her?

* * *

**Brevin Tolett, 17  
****District Four**

Maybe it didn't matter how loud he shouted.

Brevin glared at the sky as he stumbled forward. His throat was sore, his voice hoarse from shouting. And still no one had come. Maybe there was no one here. Maybe no one had come because no one had heard him. Maybe he should just wait…

But just as he was beginning to consider sitting down and getting some rest, something caught his eye. Some sort of motion behind a nearby tree. Brevin grinned. _Finally. _He raised his stick and charged.

As he did, however, a girl appeared from behind the tree, a knife in one hand, a hammer in the other. Shaved head, grey jumpsuit – one of the replacement tributes. The number on her jumpsuit was an 8. One of the girls who had been at the houses.

This was perfect.

Brevin grinned. The tributes at the houses had killed Kendall. They had kept him from seeking refuge there, prevented him from finding food and shelter when he'd needed it. Surely the audience would be on his side. A tribute trying to finish what he'd started, wipe out the alliance that had killed his ally, his district partner – they would like that.

Maybe they would finally send him something.

Brevin swung his stick, but the girl dodged. _Don't get ahead of yourself. _He hadn't won the fight yet. And, once he did, chances were good that he wouldn't _need _help from the sponsors. The girl had weapons. She probably had food. Once she was dead…

But she wasn't dead yet. Brevin dodged as the girl lashed out with her knife. She was clumsy. Untrained. But she was armed. He had a stick. He would have to be careful. Underestimating armed, untrained tributes had gotten Kendall killed.

He wasn't about to let the same thing happen to him.

Brevin took a step back. Then another. The girl charged. He dodged. Again. But it was getting harder. He hadn't realized – not until now – just how tired he was. He had been walking – and then running – all night. He hadn't slept for more than an hour or two at a time in days. He hadn't had a good meal since the Games began.

Brevin clenched his teeth. None of that mattered. He was a Career. He was stronger than her. He was faster than her. He was more prepared. He was better than her. And, once he killed her, he would have plenty of time to eat and rest and recover.

Once he killed her…

Brevin swung his stick again – harder. The girl dodged once, then twice. The third time, however, the stick cracked hard against her shoulder. The girl gave a cry and backed away, but, as she did, she tripped over something. A root or a rock or simply a patch of wet earth – Brevin couldn't tell. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was that this was his chance.

His chance to end it quickly.

Brevin charged, aiming low. If he could get her knife, it would be over. Ignoring the hammer in her other hand, Brevin dove for the knife. The girl held on tightly, but Brevin was stronger. The girl was wriggling – struggling to reach something, maybe – as he finally wrenched the knife from her grasp.

He didn't see the other knife.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

He didn't see the other knife.

Adelia clenched her teeth, bracing herself for the boy's blow as her fingers closed around the second knife. One of the ones she'd hidden in her pocket. She managed to dodge most of his blow – his knife barely grazing her neck – as she plunged her second knife – Jediah's knife – deep into his side.

The boy cried out in pain, but, even as he did, his knife came down again. This time, she didn't have time to dodge. But his blow was wild and clumsy, burying the knife in her shoulder. Adelia didn't think. She didn't have time to. She yanked the knife out of her own shoulder, and, as the boy was reaching down to pull the knife from his side, she lunged, plunging her own weapon into his neck.

The boy fell forward on top of her. Gasping. Bleeding. A sharp pain in her arm told her he'd managed to strike one final blow. But it wouldn't be enough.

The boy's cannon sounded.

For a moment, Adelia simply lay there. Catching her breath. Trying to free herself from underneath the boy's body. Pain filled her left arm. She could barely see anything through the rain and the blood that was still pouring from the boy's wounds.

But she was alive.

That was the important thing, Adelia reminded herself as she finally managed to escape from under the boy's weight. She was still alive. And the boy was dead.

Adelia struggled for a deep breath, but even she could hear how ragged, how exhausted, her breathing sounded. She needed rest. But, more than that, she needed to tend to her own wounds. If she waited…

All thoughts of rest left her as she finally glanced over at her arm. The wound to her shoulder was bad, but the rest of the arm – it looked as if someone had been trying to saw it off between the shoulder and the elbow. Maybe that was what the boy had been trying to do. Blood seeped onto the ground. If she lost any more…

Adelia's thoughts were interrupted by a gentle pinging noise. A parachute. Adelia nearly laughed. May have laughed, if she hadn't been struggling so hard to breathe. "Thank you," she whispered as the package landed near her feet.

What she found inside, however, wasn't exactly what she had expected. She had been hoping for medicine. Bandages. Something to stop the bleeding. Instead, all she found was what appeared to be a large bracelet – thick and metal. Almost like a manacle, but slightly larger, with some sort of button on the side.

Large enough to fit around her arm.

Adelia gripped it tightly, putting the pieces together. "All right," she whispered, sliding it over her left arm. Higher and higher up her arm, above the wound that was still bleeding. "All right." She pressed the button.

The band tightened. Tighter and tighter, until she couldn't feel anything in her left arm. But that was good, Adelia realized as the bleeding stopped. That was better than feeling pain. Slowly, she crawled over to a large tree and, leaning back against it, closed her eyes. Her left arm dangled limply at her side. Her clothes were stained with blood – both hers and the boy's. But none of that mattered. None of that was important anymore.

She was alive.

* * *

**Avery Bentham  
****District Three Mentor**

He was dead.

Avery sat huddled in a corner with Miriam and Percival. Each of them had an arm around her. Trying to comfort her. Trying to offer their support.

But they couldn't help her. None of their comfort was going to do any good. Nothing they said, nothing they did, could bring Evander back.

"There was nothing you could have done," Miriam said softly.

It was true, of course. But whether that made it better or worse, Avery wasn't sure. Right now, she couldn't imagine anything worse than watching helplessly as Thane's boot crushed the life out of Evander's body. What could be worse than knowing there was nothing she could have done to save him?

Avery buried her face in Miriam's shirt. Why had they brought her? Why was she here, mentoring, if there was nothing she was going to be able to do to help any of the tributes? Why were _any _of them here? What difference did they make, in the end?

She just wanted to go home.

She just wanted to forget.

But there was no way to forget. What was waiting for her at home in District Three? Nothing. Nothing but reminders of what had happened last year. Her family, dead. Her friends, gone. Her fellow Victors, constant reminders of the Games. There was nothing she could do – nowhere she could go – to forget.

There was no escape.

Except one.

Avery swallowed hard. Maybe it was time. Her parents. Her friends. Evander. Maybe it would be better if she joined them. Maybe…

Maybe it was time.

* * *

"_First you have to clean up your own mess."_


	47. Alive

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't already. Also, a reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, has an open SYOT, so send her some tributes.

* * *

**Day Five  
****Alive**

* * *

**Santiago Ibanez, 19  
****Brother of Domingo Ibanez**

He was still alive.

Santiago breathed a sigh of relief as another image of Domingo flashed on the screen. Most of the attention was on the other tributes now – tributes who were actively _doing _something at the moment – but, every now and then, there would be a shot of Domingo, still sleeping underneath the tree.

He wasn't sleeping particularly soundly. Every noise in the jungle – whether it was a cannon or the rain or simply the wind rustling through the trees – seemed to wake him. But, after the hours he'd spent waiting for the Careers to find him, not wanting to fall asleep and leave himself defenseless, any sort of rest was better than nothing.

At least there didn't seem to be anyone else nearby. As far as Santiago could tell, the closest tribute was Philus, and he didn't seem to be going anywhere for the moment, either. Good. Maybe the Gamemakers would leave Domingo alone for a few hours, at least.

Surely he had done enough for now. He'd spent a few days in safety in the station below the hatch, yes, but the two kills he'd made since finding his way down there – the boy from Ten and the girl from Two – surely those were enough to earn him a little rest.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be enough to earn him any sponsors. Santiago shook his head. The girl from two had managed to injure Domingo during their fight. There was a gash in his thigh, and another in his arm. Neither had been tended to; Domingo had been too weak, too tired. If he didn't do something soon…

But what was he supposed to do? He didn't exactly have anything to bandage them with, anyway. Nothing clean, at least. His own clothes were torn, dirty, bloody. If he could manage to find some larger leaves, those might work, but in his present state…

His present state, of course, wasn't his fault. He'd done all he could – and better than Santiago had ever imagined he would against a Career. The black smoke mutt had helped, of course, but still…

It was impressive. But, apparently, it wasn't enough. Not enough for the sponsors, for the Capitol. What did it take to impress them?

What would it take to keep his brother alive?

* * *

**Kane Luciano, 47  
****Father of Adelia Luciano**

What would it take to keep his daughter alive?

Kane drummed his fingers nervously on the arm of the couch, watching as Evander's cannon woke Adelia. She sat up, wincing in pain, putting no pressure on her left arm, which still hung limply at her side. It was hard to tell with the constant rain clouding the arena, but her arm seemed to be turning an odd shade of purple.

Kane shook his head. Tributes had survived the Games with worse injuries. Lander and Carolina had both returned from the Games badly injured – Lander with burns that had been bad enough to warrant amputating his hand and replacing it with a prosthetic. Carolina's legs had been crushed, her eye torn out.

But none of those injuries had happened when there were so many tributes left.

Maybe eight wasn't a large number of tributes – particularly when they had started with so many – but that meant there were still seven others. Seven tributes who would have to die in order for Adelia to live. Including two of her allies.

_Former _allies. Both Aleron and Myrah had left Adelia. If they had been with her when Brevin had attacked, she might not have been injured – and certainly wouldn't have been injured as badly. It would have been an easier fight.

But they had left her. They had all left her. Aleron and Myrah and even Evander. Because of them, she'd had to face a Career alone.

And she had won.

Apparently that had been enough to impress the sponsors – at least a little. But would their gift be enough to keep her alive? Would one arm be enough if she had to fight again?

_When _she had to fight again. At this point, there was no 'if.' There was no avoiding the other tributes forever – even if there weren't any who were particularly close at the moment. Eventually, one of them would find her – or she would find one of them. There were only eight of them, after all. It wouldn't be long before the Gamemakers started to drive them together.

He just hoped it would be long enough.

* * *

**Brietta Polaine, 42  
****Mother of Philus Polaine**

She hoped they would let him rest long enough.

Brietta held her younger children close as the family sat together, watching. Watching for another glimpse of Philus on the screen, and yet dreading those moments at the same time. Because every moment they _didn't _show her son onscreen was a moment when they could be sure nothing was happening. That he was still sleeping soundly.

Or, at least, as soundly as could be expected. Occasionally, he would wake and roll over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. There was none to be found, of course – not on the hard ground, not with his injuries. Injuries that had gone largely untended since Melody's death.

Melody's death. Brietta swallowed hard, trying not to think about that. About the look on Melody's face as Philus had killed her. About her screams – screams Philus had, mercifully, been unable to hear.

She understood why he had done it, of course. Melody had clearly been thinking about doing the same – about killing him while she had the chance, to spare him pain and perhaps to save herself in the event of an attack. And maybe he had been hoping that, if he made another kill – if he proved he was willing to kill even an ally to survive – the sponsors would send him something.

So far, however, the sponsors had done nothing useful.

Brietta shook her head. It wasn't fair. They had sent useful gifts to other tributes. Adelia had received a gift, despite being injured as badly as Philus. Baylor, Evander, Shale. Even Imalia, after she had killed both of Philus' allies. She had received a gift, despite having no particular need of one at the time. But, now that Philus needed something, what had they done?

They had sent knives. But a weapon wasn't what Philus needed – not really. If they could afford to send him a weapon, why couldn't they afford to send him medicine? Or bandages? Or maybe some food? Didn't they understand that was what he needed to survive?

The problem, of course, was that they did understand. They simply didn't care. When it came down to it, the sponsors usually weren't particularly interested in keeping tributes alive. They were more interested in making sure other tributes ended up _dead_. Given the choice between sending a weapon and sending food, a weapon was more appealing to them. More exciting. More likely to result in something interesting.

Because living wasn't interesting enough to them.

* * *

**Meredith Grenier, 44  
****Mother of Imalia Grenier**

Imalia was still alive; that was good enough for her.

Meredith nodded to Allan as the pair of them watched the screen. Imalia and Indira were still making their way north from where the greenhouse used to be. They had missed out on the action between Thane and Evander, but, as far as Meredith was concerned, that was a good thing.

She had never imagined watching the Games would be this difficult. The other Careers' parents always seemed so sure. So certain that their son or daughter would be the one returning from the Games. She had always imagined that, if Imalia chose to enter the Games, she would be as confident in her daughter's success.

And maybe she would have been, any other year. But one thing after another had slowly worn away at her confidence. The extra tributes at the reaping, prompting Imalia to volunteer a year early. The way the Capitol had treated the replacement tributes throughout the festivities. The Capitol's decision to split the tributes in half, separating Imalia from half her pack at the beginning of the Games. The fact that she had turned on Jarlan. The boar that had injured her.

An injury she was still recovering from. The limp in her step as she followed Indira was a bit less noticeable than it had been, but it was still there. Forcing her to step back and let Indira take the lead. And maybe that was a good thing; whatever danger lay ahead, Indira would find it first. But if the audience began to suspect that Indira had a better chance…

Any other year, Meredith might have laughed at the thought. The idea of an outer-district tribute – _any _outer-district tribute – having a better chance than a fully-trained Career. But this year was different. They had started the Games with roughly a dozen Careers – depending on whether District Five and Septimus counted. Now Imalia was the only one left. But that was the only thing that mattered, in the end.

She was still alive.

* * *

**Yura Hayer, 35  
****Mother of Thane Hayer**

He was still alive.

Yura paced back and forth in front of the screen as Thane settled down for a rest only a short distance from the shattered greenhouse. Maybe he was hoping that, if he stayed around long enough, the previous occupants would return – and maybe he could make a move while they were distracted. He had no way of knowing, of course, that the two previous occupants were still heading in the opposite direction.

But maybe that was for the best. There were two of them, after all. Only one of him. It certainly wouldn't be a fair fight.

But that wasn't much of a change.

Yura finally sat down, watching anxiously as Thane bandaged his leg where Evander's piece of glass had cut him. The wound didn't look bad – certainly not as bad as some of the other tributes' injuries. Still, he must be in pain…

Not that he would ever show it. Especially not to all of Panem. Whatever he was feeling, whatever he was thinking, it was his, and his alone. If he wouldn't even let his mother and father in, why should he be open with the cameras and the audience?

Except, of course, for the fact that it could save his life.

Other tributes had received help from the audience, after all – but only because they had made themselves stand out in some way. For most of the Games, it seemed, Thane had simply been there – living off his alliance's success, and then leaving as soon as things got rough. He was still alive, but the fact remained that his actions hadn't had much of an impact on the Games.

And, sooner or later, that would have to change.

Yura shook her head. Any move in the Games was a risk. Any choice came with consequences. Thane had gotten this far by avoiding any major risks, and, so far, it had paid off. He was still alive, his only injury a relatively minor cut. But eventually, he would have to make a move.

She would just have to hope he survived whatever that move was.

* * *

**Brenden Lanhart, 44  
****Father of Myrah Lanhart**

He just hoped Myrah wouldn't fall asleep.

Brenden drummed his fingers on his leg, watching as Myrah and Aleron continued to pace around the large, stone building, trading nervous, suspicious glances after every cannon. How long would it be before one or the other had to make a move?

There were only eight tributes left, after all. Eight tributes, and Myrah still had no kills. No blood on her hands. Brenden wasn't sure whether he should be proud of her or worried about what the audience thought of her.

Then again, her district partner, Thane, had only just made his first kill. That hadn't stopped the two of them from making it to the final eight. Brenden shook his head. Eight tributes left, and District Nine, of all districts, was the only one with two tributes remaining.

But that wasn't good enough.

Making it to the final eight, then final five, the finale … none of that mattered, in the end. All that mattered was whether or not his daughter came home. So although he was certainly proud that she'd made it so far without killing, part of him knew that, eventually, that would have to end. If she wanted to come home, she would have to kill.

He didn't have to like it. He knew she certainly didn't like it. But that was how the Games worked. Only one tribute had made it out without killing, and that had been decades ago. This year, of all years, the Capitol would make sure their Victor had blood on their hands.

Brenden shook his head. Myrah knew that as well as anyone else. She had fought, back when the Careers had attacked the houses. She had been willing to defend herself if Aleron had attacked instead of rekindling their alliance. And she certainly didn't trust him now.

Did that mean she was ready to move against him?

Maybe. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Maybe she was still a bit hesitant. But if there was anyone left in the arena who didn't deserve her hesitation, her sympathy, it was Aleron. The two tributes who had killed her allies were dead, but the boy who had abandoned the alliance in their moment of need was still alive and well. If she could be the one to avenge her allies…

Brenden clenched his fists. Maybe it should have been easy to hate the boy. But the fact was that Aleron was as much a victim as Jediah and Nadine had been. As much as Myrah was. He had only been trying to save his life. He hadn't asked to be in the Games. None of them had. None of them had wanted this.

But that wasn't enough to change anything.

* * *

**Abigail Blanchet, 43  
****Mother of Aleron Blanchet**

He had changed so much.

Abigail wrung her hands together as Aleron and Myrah continued to pace about the stone building, neither of them wanting to be the first to admit that they needed rest. They did, of course. The pair hadn't slept since finding each other again. But neither wanted to be the first to let their guard down, knowing that they had allied again not out of friendship or trust, but out of convenience and maybe even necessity, and because the alternative had been a fight.

A fight that neither of them wanted, perhaps. Or maybe simply a fight that neither of them thought they were ready for, that they knew they probably wouldn't walk away from unharmed. Both of them were relatively well-armed, after all. And, for now, at least, they had sufficient supplies to last a while. They had shelter. They had no compelling reason to fight.

Not yet.

But how long would it be before the Gamemakers gave them one? There were only eight tributes left, after all, and the pair of them represented one of only two remaining alliances. Maybe they weren't Careers, but they might be able to take on any of the other tributes – the ones who were by themselves – if they happened to find one.

For the moment, however, they seemed content to stay in the stone building. To rest. But not to sleep. Not yet. Not until they absolutely had to.

Not yet.

Abigail shook her head. She could only hope Aleron wouldn't be the first to give into the need for sleep. Whether or not Myrah still blamed him for abandoning their alliance, the fact remained that he would present a tempting target for her if he ever let his guard down. After all, she had only agreed to go with him after he had pointed out that she was safer with him _because _she didn't trust him.

Abigail still couldn't quite believe the words had come out of her son's mouth. That he'd been able to piece together a logical, coherent argument for joining him that had made sense to the person he was trying to persuade. In fact, she wasn't sure which she found more unbelievable – that, or the fact that he had two kills.

Two kills. Two tributes – two _children _– dead at her son's hands. Abigail swallowed hard. She wasn't quite sure what to think of that. On the one hand, Aleron had killed both Fallon and Elizabet without hesitation, without complaint, and seemingly without remorse. They were dead – two children with families who had been waiting, like her, for their child to come home.

Two children who would have to have died anyway, eventually, if Aleron was going to come home. Every kill, every cannon, brought Aleron closer to the end of the Games. Did it matter, in the end, whether or not he had been the one to kill them?

Maybe it didn't.

* * *

**Auron Valleso, 24  
****Brother of Indira Serren**

Maybe it didn't matter.

Auron watched silently from his seat beside his parents as Indira and Imalia made their way through the jungle. Three cannons had sounded recently. Naella. Evander. Brevin. And Indira and Imalia hadn't been responsible for any of them.

Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe it was even a good thing. All three of the tributes who had survived those fights, after all, had come away injured – some worse than others. Indira had managed to avoid injury, but her ally was still recovering from her leg wound. Maybe it would be best to avoid the action for a while.

But how long could that last?

Auron glanced at the screen, which hadn't shown much change in any of the tributes' situations for quite a while. Myrah and Aleron were still pacing around the building where they had taken refuge. Adelia, Philus, and Domingo were still resting, and Thane had finally settled down, as well. Indira and Imalia were the only ones who seemed to be going anywhere at the moment.

Whether that was good or bad, Auron wasn't sure. Yes, they were the only tributes on the move … but they weren't headed in a particularly useful direction. They had no way of knowing it, of course, but they were nowhere close to any other tributes. Thane was probably the closest, but the pair showed no signs of wanting to head back to the greenhouse they had left.

Did that mean the Gamemakers would expect them to turn on each other?

Auron shook the thought from his head. If they did – if it came to a fight – was it really a battle Indira could hope to win? Imalia hadn't hesitated, after all, to send Jarlan and Shale to their deaths. Why should Indira expect any different if it came to a fight between the two of them. But Indira … Would she really have it in her to fight an ally? To _kill _an ally, if it came to that?

Maybe. Maybe now that there were so few of them left, she would be able to see that it was the only option. That, eventually, if she wanted to come home, Imalia had to go. She had been the one, after all, to remind Imalia of that before: that Jarlan and Shale would have to have died eventually.

Auron could only hope she would take her own advice.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

Maybe it was time to take her own advice.

Indira glanced around as she and Imalia trekked farther and farther into the jungle. The light at the greenhouse had gone out hours ago – right before a cannon had sounded. For a moment, they had considered turning back, but they both knew better. Whoever had been at the greenhouse – whoever had turned the lights off, whoever had killed a tribute – was probably long gone.

And, chances were, so was the greenhouse. The cabin had disappeared as soon as it had no longer been useful as a shelter. Why should the greenhouse be any different? It had served its purpose. It had drawn tributes in, lured them to their deaths. Now it would only be a hindrance, a distraction, a reason for staying put when it was clear it was time to move.

Maybe it was time to make _her _move.

Indira clutched her hand rake tightly, trying to push the thought from her mind. But there were only eight tributes left. Only eight of them. Most of the Careers were gone. How many besides Imalia were left? Two or three, maybe – and that wasn't counting any who had been killed since the faces had shown the night before. For all she knew, the other Careers were dead.

For all she knew, her toughest competition was walking beside her right now.

Limping beside her, actually. The pair of them had been walking for hours, and it was clearly beginning to take its toll on Imalia. They had been resting frequently, eating as much as they dared of the food they had taken from the greenhouse, drinking their fill of the rainwater. Imalia didn't seem to be in any particular hurry to get wherever they were going.

Indira, on the other hand, couldn't deny a growing feeling of restlessness. What if there was a reason the Gamemakers hadn't herded them towards any of the other tributes? What if they were hoping the two of them would provide enough drama on their own?

What if the Gamemakers were hoping for a fight?

Indira glanced at Imalia, who had stopped to eat a little once more, her crowbar clenched tightly in her hands, masking the pain in her leg. Would she ever get a better opportunity than this? Imalia didn't seem to suspect anything. Maybe she _could _do it. Wait for Imalia to turn her back, and then…

And then kill her. Strike with her hand rake or try to wrestle the crowbar away from her ally. Indira swallowed hard. A few days ago, the thought would have made her sick. But there were only eight of them left. Only eight. How long would it be before they were facing each other? And, if they had to fight, maybe it would be better to get it over with now, before Imalia was fully recovered.

Indira sighed. She was beginning to regret giving her the flowers. If she hadn't taken the time to tend Imalia's wounds then, would Imalia be dead by now? Maybe not dead, but certainly not in as good condition. Certainly less likely to wound Indira if it came to a fight.

_When _it came to a fight.

Indira gripped her hand rake a little tighter. _When. _How long could she postpone making her move? How long could she and Imalia continue to play allies? Surely the same thoughts were going through Imalia's mind. And she was a Career – certainly even more confident in her abilities. How long would it be before _she _decided to make a move?

Maybe it would be better to act first.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

Maybe it would be better if she simply left.

Imalia glanced over at Indira, who seemed to be growing impatient. Not that Imalia blamed her. A few days ago, she might have been just as impatient, just as annoyed with an ally who seemed to be dawdling, who seemed reluctant to venture out in search of a fight.

No. No, she could forget _might have been_. This sort of attitude was exactly the reason she had turned on Jarlan. He had wanted to wait for the right moment to leave the hovercraft and attack. She had been determined to get moving as soon as possible.

Imalia almost laughed at the thought. Now she was the one who wanted to wait, to rest, to conserve their strength while they could. And Indira, of all people, was the one who was insisting on moving forward. She seemed tireless, and, as frustrating as it was to keep calling to her to wait, to stop for a moment to catch their breaths or eat a little food, Imalia couldn't help it. She was tired.

But that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Imalia gritted her teeth as she shifted her weight from her injured leg again. As peaceful as their brief stay in the greenhouse had been, they had both known that it couldn't last forever. And they both knew now – even though neither of them had said it – that there was no point in going back.

They could only go forward.

Forward, towards the end of the Games. Because, as tired as she was now, as weary as she felt, she wouldn't truly be safe until she was back home in District Four. There was no real rest – not until the Games were over. And not unless she won.

So she grasped her crowbar a little tighter, set her jaw, and kept moving. If Indira could do it – if an untrained tribute from Ten could keep going despite the cold and the rain and the weariness – then so could she.

But would that be enough?

It wasn't enough to simply keep moving. It wasn't enough to simply be alive, now that they had reached the final eight. How long would the Gamemakers let their small alliance go untouched?

Because the truth was, aside from their brief encounter with the boar, she and Indira had made it so far mostly unchallenged. The tributes at the greenhouse had provided a bit of a fight, but how much of a chance had they really had? How good of a fight had it really been?

How long before the audience began to grow bored with them?

Imalia shook her head as her boots sloshed through the water. There had been three cannons recently. True, none of those cannons had been their doing, but maybe that would be enough to keep the audience satisfied for a while. Maybe…

Then she saw it. The water. The water that was slowly pooling on the ground. How long had it been there? How long had she been walking, without really noticing that the puddles they were trudging through were growing deeper and deeper?

How long had the island been flooding right under their noses?

"Indira!" Imalia called to her ally, who was already about twenty paces ahead of her.

"What?" Indira snapped. Irritated by the delay. Imalia gritted her teeth. If she was that frustrated with the pace, why didn't she just leave?

For that matter, why hadn't _she _left?

Instead, she simply nodded to the water. "It's rising."

Imalia half-expected a matter-of-fact, _Well, of course it's rising. _Or maybe the same sort of casual _Why not? _she had received when she had remarked that the cabin couldn't have disappeared. Instead, Indira looked genuinely surprised. "How long has it—"

"I don't know," Imalia admitted. "Probably a while. Maybe it's been slowly rising the whole time. That doesn't matter. We need to get to higher ground."

Indira nodded, glancing around. There were hills in both directions – to the left and right. The hills on the right were closer, but they already knew what lay in that direction. The hovercraft they had landed in so long ago was across those hills. Maybe the audience would prefer that they do a little exploring.

"That way." Imalia pointed towards the hills off to the left. "Let's go."

Part of her hoped that Indira would disagree. That maybe if they split up now, it would still be early enough that the Gamemakers would let them do so peacefully. Maybe they could simply walk off in different directions and be done with it.

But, instead, Indira nodded. "Sounds good. Let's go."

For a moment, Imalia considered changing her mind. Heading the other way, anyway. But her legs started moving, almost without her control, in the direction Indira was already headed.

She could only hope it was for the best.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He had hoped to be able to sleep a little longer.

Domingo rolled over a little, trying to find a position that wasn't so uncomfortable and wet. Everything was wet, of course, but the ground seemed even wetter than normal. Almost as if…

Domingo's eyes flew open as he realized. Sure enough, the ground was covered in a thin but unmistakable layer of water. Slowly, painfully, Domingo got to his feet. The water wasn't deep yet, but it was definitely a sign. _Get moving if you don't want to drown._

And he certainly didn't want to drown.

Only as he put more weight on his right leg did Domingo realize just how badly he'd been injured. The bleeding had stopped, and he'd been trying to ignore the pain, but now it was all he could do not to collapse as he shifted his weight back to his left leg. How was he supposed to walk?

But he couldn't stay here. Not with the water that was slowly creeping across the ground. He had to get somewhere higher. He had to go uphill.

Domingo glanced around frantically, searching for anything he could use as a crutch. Finally, he spotted a branch that was almost the right size. It was a little big for him, but now was no time to be picky. After eating a little of the food he'd managed to stuff in his pockets before the girl from Two had arrived, he slowly started off towards the nearest hill.

Almost immediately, there was a clap of thunder, and a bolt of lightning struck the nearest tree, which fell a few feet in front of him, blocking his path. Domingo stared for a moment before putting it together. "Maybe the other way?" he asked, not really expecting an answer as he turned and headed in the other direction. The lack of falling trees was answer enough.

He was going the right way.

But what was in that direction? What was it the Gamemakers wanted him to find? If there was another tribute that way, would he really stand a chance in a fight? Were they leading him into a trap?

Domingo gritted his teeth as he shifted his weight from his good leg to the branch and back again. Wherever they were leading him, he didn't seem to have much choice in the matter. If he tried to go the other way, they could simply send another tree to block his path, or make the water rise faster and drown him. Hell, if they _really _wanted him dead, they could simply send the black smoke mutt to attack _him_.

But they hadn't. So maybe it wasn't a tribute up ahead at all. Maybe it wasn't a trap. Maybe it was something else they wanted him to find. Something like the hatch. Maybe there was medicine, or bandages, or at least a safe place to rest.

Maybe they _did _want to keep him alive a little longer.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

She just had to stay awake a little longer.

Myrah rubbed her eyes as she paced around the stone building, waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn't sure. There had been five cannons since they'd arrived at the building. Five more tributes dead.

Only eight left.

Myrah shook her head impatiently. That was a _good _thing. There were five fewer tributes to worry about. Only eight of them left. Only seven people who had to die in order for her to make it home.

But one of them was Aleron.

And Aleron showed no signs of wanting to fall asleep, either – not with her keeping watch. Not that she blamed him. Every cannon brought the question back to her mind. When would it be time to leave him?

Or when would it be time to kill him?

Myrah clenched her fists. Part of her still didn't want to. Didn't want to be the one to make the first move. He had abandoned their alliance, yes, but, other than that, he'd shown no signs of wanting to kill _her._ He'd invited her to join him _because _he knew she didn't trust him.

Which meant he was _expecting _her to try to kill him. That would give _him _the excuse he needed to turn on her. But how long could they simply wait and _think _about turning on each other? How long before the Gamemakers grew impatient and decided they needed to actually _do _it?

Myrah glanced down at her boots. They seemed heavier. She had emptied the water out a little while ago, as she had gotten used to doing, but walking had suddenly gotten harder, the water sloshing a bit more. Almost as if…

"Aleron!" Myrah called, her voice a bit more panicked than she had intended. "The water! It's rising!"

Not a lot, maybe. Certainly not enough to drown them. But enough for the message to be clear. It was time to leave. Time to move on.

Again.

Did that mean it was time to act?

"Come on!" Aleron called, motioning to the wall. "Let's go!" Immediately, he started climbing. Myrah followed, grasping vine after vine, quickly catching up to Aleron, who was already panting. Already beginning to slow.

Slowing a little too much.

Myrah saw the knife just in time to dodge. The knife missed her chest, embedding itself in a crack in the wall, instead. Myrah dodged the second blow, as well, but it managed to slice through part of the vine she was holding onto. Another slice would be enough to sever it completely.

She didn't have time to think. Immediately, Myrah swung over towards Aleron, feet-first, hoping to knock him off-balance. The kick knocked the knife from his hands, but he grabbed her legs, instead. But even as he did, he lost his grip on his own vine, grasping Myrah as he fell, pulling her down with him.

Together, the pair of them tumbled back down into the water.

* * *

**Aleron Blanchet, 15  
****District Three**

The water wasn't deep enough.

Aleron could hear Myrah screaming as the pair of them fell. Or maybe it was his own screaming as he struck the ground, the layer of water not yet deep enough to cushion their fall. Aleron didn't have time to move as Myrah hit the ground beside him, landing on his wrist. Aleron screamed as pain shot through his right arm, matching the pain in his back where he had landed. Did that mean it was broken? His arm? His back? If his back was broken…

But it wasn't. He rolled over a little, struggling, trying to free his wrist from under Myrah's body. Unable to shake himself free, he reached over with his left hand, trying to find the knives that were still in his pocket. He had lost his own, but the ones he had taken from the girls…

Aleron grimaced as he squirmed, trying to reach his pocket. Why had he put both of them in his right pocket? He should have kept one in his left, just in case. Just in case something like this happened. Finally, he managed to grip the handle and gave it a tug.

But it was too late.

Myrah had found her own knife. With his right wrist still pinned, Aleron didn't have time to react as the younger girl's knife came hurtling down towards his chest. Pain. Worse than the pain in his back or even in his arm. Blood came pouring out of his chest as Myrah yanked the knife out again.

"Stop!" Aleron gasped, desperate. "You need me! The water's rising too fast! We can only get out together."

It was a lie, of course, and a rather pitiful one, at that, but it was all he had. It was his only chance.

But it wasn't good enough; the look on Myrah's face made that clear. "Coward," she spat, driving her knife into his chest once more, her weight finally leaving his wrist as she stood, grimacing, and gave his stomach a kick.

"Stop!" Aleron pleaded. "Please, you have to listen to me."

But she didn't. She only kicked him again. And again. Aleron could barely breathe, let alone do anything to resist, as she knelt down and began rummaging through his pockets. She quickly found the two knives that he had been trying to reach, as well as the little food he had left. She stuffed the knives and the food into her own pockets and headed back to the wall.

"Wait!" Aleron called as his blood continued to flow, staining the water that was quickly rising around him. She couldn't just leave him here. She couldn't…

But Myrah was already climbing. He could see that much, even though his vision was starting to blur. Aleron rolled over a little, but he could barely move. He certainly couldn't stand.

The water was rising faster now. Aleron's hand found the wound in his chest, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood as the water rose higher. Higher. Everything was getting darker. Colder. Aleron took one last gasp of air before the water closed over his head.

It wasn't fair…

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

It wasn't fair.

Adelia clenched her teeth, sitting up slowly. She had just fallen asleep, only to be woken by yet another cannon. Another tribute gone.

Only seven of them left.

That was a good thing, she reminded herself. One less tribute she would have to worry about later. One less tribute she might have to face. That was a good thing.

But the numbness in her arm wasn't a good thing. The shade of purple that had come over her skin wasn't good, either. She seemed to remember a tribute or two winning the Games without a hand, but an arm?

At least it was her left arm. That was a good thing. Probably the only good thing about the situation. Adelia took a deep breath and leaned back against the tree. She could still do this. She had to. All she had to do was avoid a fight with any stronger tributes.

Right.

There were only seven of them left. Seven out of forty-six. Anyone who had made it this far – even if they weren't physically a stronger opponent – had clearly been doing _something _right. Anyone who had made it this far was a threat, and a force to be reckoned with.

But that included her.

Adelia smiled a little. The other tributes who were left – whichever ones they were – were probably as afraid of her as she was of them. Maybe they were injured, too. For all she knew, some of them could be in even worse condition. Maybe.

And 'maybe' was enough. Because, right now, 'maybe' was all she had. Maybe she could still fight. Maybe she could still kill.

Maybe she could still win.

But right now, she just wanted to sleep. She was just so _tired._ Maybe it was the blood she had lost before the sponsors had sent her the metal cuff. Maybe it was simply the fact that she hadn't slept much since leaving the houses – and hadn't slept particularly well even before that. Maybe even the whole Games.

The whole Games. It was hard to believe it hadn't even been five full days. Only three days since they had found the houses. Less than that since Jediah and Nadine had been killed. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had all been together, safe and happy.

No. No, not happy. Maybe content. But all of that was gone now. The sense of security. The trust they'd had. Even her allies – most of them were probably gone now. Could Evander and Myrah have made it this long? And what about Aleron?

And what would happen if they found each other again?

Adelia closed her eyes. If they found each other again – assuming any of them were still alive – one of three things would happen. Either they would ally again, or simply go their separate ways, or they would fight. But would any of them want an ally in her condition? And what were the chances that the Gamemakers would let them simply walk away if they happened to find each other?

No. No, if they somehow found each other again, there would be a fight. The Gamemakers would make sure of it. The audience loved a good show, and what made a better show than former allies turning on each other?

Adelia shook the thought from her head. Chances were, it wouldn't happen. Even if they were still alive, their chances of running into each other again were slim. And, more likely than not, most of her allies were dead, just like so many of the other tributes. Thirty-nine of them dead. Only seven still alive.

And she was one of them.

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

He was still alive.

Philus took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain as he propped himself up against a tree. If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, he might as well keep watch. There really wasn't much else he could do. He could barely sit up; walking was out of the question. He would just have to stay where he was and hope.

Philus shook his head. How much more luck could he hope for? There had already been four or five cannons since he'd killed Melody. At least, he was pretty sure there had been. One or two of them might have been thunder. But he was getting pretty good at telling the difference in the vibrations. At least, he hoped he was.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Just hoping that enough tributes would kill each other off that he might still have a chance.

Philus closed his eyes. Who was he kidding? His best hope had been that the sponsors would send him something, that they would reward him for killing Melody and try to save his life. But, so far, they had done nothing. And if they were going to send anything, surely they would have done it by now…

Philus brushed the tears from his eyes. He had killed his ally – his friend – and for what? He was alone now, and just as injured as he had been. Except now, there was no one to help him. No one who might protect him if another tribute attacked.

And maybe Melody wouldn't have protected him, anyway. But there had always been a chance – a chance that she would try to help him. And he had destroyed that chance. He had killed her.

And now someone was going to kill him.

It was only a matter of time. He had no food. He had a weapon – two, in fact – but he was in no condition to use them unless the other tribute was asleep, as Melody had been. Unless the sponsors sent him something…

Philus opened his eyes. Maybe the sponsors didn't matter now. They had already decided he was going to die. So maybe there was only one thing left that mattered.

Philus slowly lifted his arm, placing his hand over his chest. He held out the other hand, palm-up, as high as he could. The sign he and his family had worked out for _I love you. _Maybe that was the only thing left to say. The only thing that mattered.

The only thing that had ever mattered.

Philus held his hand out as long as he could, then let it drop, palm-up, onto the wet earth. They knew. His family knew that he loved them. Maybe, at the end, that was the only thing that mattered.

Philus closed his eyes. Were they saying the same thing? His family, his friends, back in District Eleven – were they still holding out hope that the sponsors would do something? Or had they accepted what he had? Would they be content with the fact that he loved them? With the fact that he knew they loved him?

It would have to be enough.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

Apparently, the Gamemakers thought he'd been sitting around long enough.

Thane sighed as he got to his feet. It had only been a few hours – at the most – since he'd killed Evander, but, apparently, the audience was already bored. Water was starting to accumulate on the ground. The broken shards of glass from the greenhouse were already floating in a small pool of water.

It was time to leave.

Thane slowly made his way back to the greenhouse, collecting as much food as he could carry and stuffing it in his pockets. As he was bending down to pick up a few carrots, however, something caught his eye. Something in the pool of blood where Evander's body had been. Something small and round.

A compass. Thane picked it up, carefully avoiding the broken glass. The needle seemed to be dancing all over the place, but, as he laid it flat in the palm of his hand, it settled on a direction off to his right. Thane cocked an eyebrow. He'd been planning to head in the opposite direction – towards the closer group of hills.

But apparently the Gamemakers had other plans.

Thane shrugged. Maybe one way was as good as another. And if the Gamemakers were pointing him towards another tribute, that was probably the way he wanted to go, anyway.

He was in pretty good shape, after all. He had food. He had weapons – both his own hand rake and Evander's knife. His only injury wasn't bad – or, at least, not anywhere near as bad as it could have been. He'd been hurt worse before. A few cuts on his leg – this far into the Games – was about as good as anyone could hope for.

And any tributes he found might very well be in worse condition.

Thane pocketed his hand rake and, gripping Evander's knife, set out, following the compass. It almost felt good to have some sort of direction. Ever since leaving Septimus – and then Audra and Sariya – he'd mostly been wandering, hoping to come across something useful. Now he knew exactly where he was going.

Well, at least he knew which _direction _he was going. What he was going to find in that direction, he wasn't sure. But it was probably good. The Gamemakers could have chosen, after all, to drive him that way with some sort of mutts, or to make the water rise faster. But instead of driving him out, they were leading him … somewhere.

Or to some_one_.

Thane turned the compass over in his hands. A small "9" was engraved on the back. Nine. Nine for District Nine? Had the compass led Evander to him?

Thane shook his head. If so, it hadn't turned out so well for Evander. Why did he have any reason to think the compass would help him?

But what choice did he have? If he refused to follow the compass, the Gamemakers could simply send some mutts to herd him in the right direction. Maybe it was better to follow along without a fight. That way, when he reached his destination, he wouldn't be tired or injured or worse.

Thane smiled a little. If they wanted a fight, that was exactly what they would get. He'd been avoiding fights throughout the Games, but killing Evander … it hadn't been as hard as he'd thought. Yes, he'd killed, but it had been quick. Merciful. After what Septimus had done to Shale, maybe anything would seem mild, but this … this hadn't been so bad.

Maybe he could do this, after all.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

Maybe she could do this, after all.

Myrah breathed a sigh of relief as her feet finally found solid ground on the other side of the wall. Immediately, she collapsed, catching her breath, Aleron's cannon still ringing in her ears. She had killed him. Or, at least, injured him and left him to certain death.

And the strange thing was, she didn't feel bad.

She had always assumed she would. She had just killed a boy, after all. There was blood on her hands – blood of someone not so different from her. But he had attacked her first. He had been trying to kill her. He _would _have killed her, if she hadn't fought back.

Instead, she had killed him. Her first kill. But, if she wanted to go home, it wouldn't be her last. It couldn't. There were still seven of them left. Six tributes who would have to die.

How many of them would she have to kill?

Myrah shook her head, leaning back against the wall. She was getting ahead of herself. She was in no condition to go running off in search of more tributes – not yet. She hadn't had time to think about it in the moment, but, now that she was sitting still, her whole body ached. Climbing up and down the wall. The awkward landing when Aleron had pulled her down. Everything hurt, but, as she tested her arms and legs, nothing seemed to be broken. Just bruised. Bruised and tired.

Myrah closed her eyes. She could rest a little while, now that Aleron was gone. It had been days, it seemed, since she'd slept. She deserved to rest.

Myrah took a deep breath. Then another. She was safe. Or, at least, as safe as she could be. The water was still rising inside the building, probably, but, outside, it wasn't as noticeable. Most likely, the Gamemakers had simply been trying to drive them out. Force a confrontation.

Still, she couldn't rest long. Just a little while.

Just a little longer...

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

Just a little longer.

Indira glanced over at Imalia as the light began to fade. Just a little longer. Another hour, perhaps – maybe two – and the faces would show in the sky. Then they would know who was left.

Then she could make her decision.

There were still seven of them left. If there were any large alliances left, then she might stay with Imalia a little longer. But if there weren't any larger groups left, maybe she would be better off on her own.

Maybe.

"Maybe we should stop for a while," Indira suggested. If they settled down for the night, and Imalia fell asleep, maybe she could sneak away and get a good head start. Or maybe even…

Imalia shook her head. "Not yet."

Indira cocked an eyebrow. She'd been sure Imalia would want to rest. But, ever since the most recent cannon had sounded, Imalia had been walking a little faster. A little more confidently.

It didn't make sense. What was the big difference between eight tributes and seven? They still had a long way to go before the end. Was she simply trying to impress the audience, prove that her injury wasn't really slowing her down? Or did she suspect that Indira was planning to leave? Was she trying to convince her to stay?

None of it made sense.

Maybe she was simply getting impatient. There had been nine cannons since the two of them had found the greenhouse and killed the two girls who were there. Nine cannons since their last kill. Maybe that was enough to account for Imalia's restlessness.

Or maybe _she _was planning something.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

Maybe she was planning something.

Imalia eyed Indira curiously as the two of them continued uphill. Why would Indira suggest stopping for the night? She'd been insisting all day that they needed to keep moving, needed to keep heading uphill. Why would she want to stop now, when they still had at least an hour of daylight left? And they still had their helmets to guide them in the dark. Why would she want to rest?

Unless she was planning something.

Imalia clutched her crowbar tightly. She would have to be careful. There were only seven of them left now. Only seven tributes. And until the faces were in the sky, she had no way of knowing exactly who was left.

Her most dangerous opponent could very well be right beside her.

Did that mean she should act now? Or was that what Indira was hoping for? Was she trying to trick Imalia into making the first move?

Or maybe there was a simpler explanation. Maybe she _was_ tired. They had been walking all day, after all – and most of the night before that. They both needed rest. Maybe the suggestion _had _been merely that – an honest suggestion that maybe it was time to stop and get some rest.

But what if it wasn't?

Imalia shook her head. If it wasn't, she would find out soon enough. There were only seven of them left. If Indira was going to make a move against her, it would have to be soon. Otherwise…

Otherwise what? What was the alternative? What if Indira did nothing? And what if she did nothing? If they managed to kill or outlast the other tributes – if they were the last two standing – then what?

Imalia clenched her teeth. There was no _then_. The Games weren't over until there was only one tribute left standing. If it came down to her and Indira, they would be no different than any other two tributes in the history of the Games. One of them had to die. And one of them would live.

But would it be her?

Imalia glanced over at Indira. If – _when_ – it came to a fight, who had the better chance? In peak condition, Imalia would never have doubted herself. But with her injury…

_Stop it_. She was still healing, it was true, but she was already strong enough to take on Indira. Probably. Almost certainly.

Almost.

Imalia shook her head, trying to shake the thought from her mind. Trying to rid herself of the doubt. She would be the one to survive. She was stronger. She was better prepared.

She was so distracted, she almost didn't see the bear.

* * *

**Bierce Lascher  
****District Four Mentor**

He almost didn't see the bear.

Bierce nearly jumped when he realized how close the bear was to Imalia and Indira. How had it snuck up on them like that? Surely anything with that sort of mass couldn't be that quiet.

Then again, it was still raining, which drowned out quite a few sounds that would normally be hard to miss. Like the sound of an eight-hundred-pound bear lumbering through the jungle. Indira saw it first, and quickly grabbed Imalia's arm in surprise, stopping her from accidentally wandering any closer.

"Idiot," Kalypso muttered.

Bierce cocked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

Kalypso shrugged. "Both. Imalia, for not noticing the bear. And Indira, for not letting her simply wander into it. She could have made a run for it while the bear went after Imalia. Now…"

Bierce nodded. Now it wasn't clear what the plan was. The bear didn't seem to have noticed them – yet. Of course, that was almost certainly an illusion created by the Gamemakers. If they wanted the bear to attack, it would – regardless of whether it seemed to have noticed them or not.

So there were three options: run, hide, or attack. Running would almost certainly mean running back the way they had come. And chances were, as soon as they ran, the bear would give chase. With Imalia's injury, it wasn't hard to guess who the bear would catch first.

Or they could hide. Hope that the Gamemakers were simply playing with them, or that the bear was waiting for another tribute, not for them. There were a few other tributes in the area, after all – although Imalia and Indira had no way of knowing that. Adelia wasn't far away, and Thane was headed in their direction. It wouldn't take him long to get there, if that was, indeed, where the Gamemakers were leading him. Maybe the bear was simply there to pick off anyone who tried to run from a fight.

The third option, of course, was to attack.

Bierce glanced over at Crispin. "What do you think?"

Crispin cocked an eyebrow. "What do I think of what?"

"Their chances against a bear, if they decide to attack together? You're the one who made the let's-attack-every-mutt-we-can strategy famous, after all."

Crispin scoffed a little. "Hardly famous. There's a reason people rarely use that sort of strategy. It's dangerous – and stupid. It was stupid then, and it's stupid now. Besides, I was using the mutts as practice. It's a little late in the Games for that."

Bierce nodded. He was probably right. Still…

"Then again, it would get rid of their dilemma," Crispin offered.

"Their dilemma?"

Crispin nodded. "Each of them knows the other is dangerous. They know the alliance needs to end. But neither of them is willing to make the first move. If they attack the bear, and one of them dies … problem solved."

"And if they both die, all the better for your tributes," Bierce pointed out.

"Touche," Crispin conceded. "Mind you, if Indira has any sense at all, she'll just make a run for it. There's no way Imalia can keep up."

Bierce nodded. That was probably true. But Indira hadn't run yet. The two of them were still standing there, watching the bear, deciding.

But they couldn't wait forever.

* * *

"_Turns out he was right about most everything. I just wish I could've told him that while he was still alive."_


	48. Given

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't already. Also, a reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, still has an open SYOT, so send some tributes her way.

* * *

**Day Five  
****Given**

* * *

**Presley Winters  
****District Ten Mentor**

It was too late for them to use her strategy.

Presley shook her head, her eyes fixed on the screen as Indira and Imalia stood perfectly still, watching the bear. There were only four options, as she could see it. The two of them could keep walking, hoping the bear wouldn't notice them. They could turn and run. They could attack. Or they could try to befriend the bear.

Presley smiled a little. The last option, she knew, wouldn't occur to most people. But she had spent the majority of her Games roaming the arena with a pair of lion mutts that had taken a liking to her on the first day. Everyone in District Ten knew that. Maybe it had even occurred to Indira as a possibility. Maybe that was why she was hesitating, why she hadn't run or attacked.

But it was too late in the Games for that.

In order for the audience to be interested enough for it to work, any sort of relationship between a tribute and a mutt had to be established early on. She had found Leon and Liana on the first day. Domingo had been relying on the black smoke mutt since it had first attacked India. What would happen if Indira tried to approach the bear and make friends now, Presley wasn't sure. But it probably wouldn't be good.

Because even when a tribute managed to get the mutts – and thus the audience – on their side, it didn't last forever. Leon and Liana had abandoned her before the finale. She had no doubt the black smoke would do the same to Domingo. And there had been other tributes – tributes who had grown too dependent on their ability to harness the mutts, and had been unable to fight their own battles when the time came.

Indira had already proven she could fight her own battles – both against mutts and against other tributes. She had nothing to gain by enlisting the help of a mutt now. So the only question now was whether it was better to ignore the mutt, to run from it, or to simply attack it before it had the chance to attack them.

Presley drummed her fingers on the table as Brennan handed her another drink. He'd been filling in for Eldred ever since the bartender had disappeared along with Harakuise and Nicodemus. "What do you think?" she asked quietly. "Run or fight?"

Brennan cocked an eyebrow. "Are you asking what _I _would do, what I think _they _should do, or what I think they're _going _to do?"

Presley hesitated. "All three, I suppose."

Brennan smiled a little. "I would have run by now, plain and simple. Probably not the smartest thing to do, but, if they run – especially if they run in separate directions – the bear will probably only catch one of them. They'd each have a fifty-fifty chance – better than they'd have trying to fight the bear. I would have taken that chance by now, especially if the other person had an injured leg."

Presley nodded. She'd heard Bierce and Kalypso saying something similar. But would either Indira or Imalia _really _be willing to leave the only ally they had left? She'd never faced that problem herself. Her only allies had been the pair of lions. She'd never had to worry about leaving her allies to die…

"Probably not what they're going to do, though," Brennan continued. "If they were going to run, they should have done it by now. Looks like their plan is to wait – hope another tribute or two shows up. Thane's getting closer. Adelia's nearby. If they wait long enough, they might not have to worry about the bear at all. It may just be there in case the tributes need a little … motivation."

That made sense, too. The bear had stopped Philus from running when Delvin had attacked Melody. Maybe it was serving the same purpose here: to discourage tributes from trying to run from a fight. But were Thane and Adelia really close enough for that to be the Gamemakers' reasoning?

"And what do you think they _should _do?"

Brennan shrugged. "Who knows. Whatever their instincts are telling them to do in the moment. It's easy to sit here and watch and think, _Well, that's not the way _I _would do things_. But we have no way of knowing that. In the moment, in the Games, with their lives on the line, their best bet is to trust whatever their gut is telling them to do.

"And we Victors should understand that better than anyone," Brennan pointed out. "None of us won by doing things the way everyone else said we should. No one told you to make friends with a couple of lions. No one told me to throw a boy's body out of a shuttle to surprise my last opponent during the finale. It's probably not something anyone else would have thought of, but, in the moment, it made sense."

Presley shook her head. "Trusting your instincts doesn't always turn out so well, though."

Brennan nodded a little. "Of course not. Nothing does. Nothing works out perfectly every time – or else tributes would have figured out the perfect strategy by now. But that perfect strategy doesn't exist. It depends on the tribute, the arena, their allies, the Gamemakers' mood. So many things. There's really no way to know if things are going to turn out right. All they can do is try to stay calm and make the best decision they can."

"Stay calm," Presley repeated. Right now, both Indira and Imalia seemed to have gotten that part right. The pair of them were trading glances, nodding at each other slightly, keeping the bear in their sights, speaking in hushed whispers. They seemed to have a plan.

Presley just wished she knew what that plan was.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She didn't like Imalia's plan.

Indira took a few steps to her right, keeping an eye on the bear. Imalia's plan was relatively simple. They would each circle around until they were approaching the bear from different angles. They would slowly close in. Whichever one of them the bear went after, the other would attack from the side, targeting the bear's stomach while the other person targeted the bear's head.

It wasn't a _terrible _plan. But she would have felt a lot better about it if she had something with a bit more reach than her hand rake. Still, it was better than having no plan at all, and, in any case, there was a fifty-fifty chance the bear would go after Imalia, instead.

"Ready?" Imalia whispered, and Indira nodded a little. Not enough, hopefully, to attract the bear's attention. Indira took a step closer. Then another. Trying to remind herself that it wasn't really the bear's choice who it went after. The Gamemakers were almost certainly the ones making the decision.

She wasn't really sure whether that was better or worse.

Carefully, the pair took a step closer. Then another. The bear finally looked up a little. Eyeing them. Both of them were in front of the bear – Indira off to the right, Imalia off to the left. Indira swallowed hard. If the bear went after Imalia – as she was hoping it would – should she attack? Or should she simply run?

And was Imalia wondering the same thing?

If the bear went after _her_, could she really count on Imalia to stand and attack? Or would Imalia simply make a run for it while the bear took her down? Together, they might stand a chance of bringing down the bear. But if one of them ran…

There was no way she could kill the bear alone. But, by the same token, Imalia surely knew she didn't stand a chance against the bear – not without Indira's help. Whoever ran would probably be safe – and whoever was left would be dead. Or they could both stay and fight together.

But who would have to make the choice?

Indira glanced at Imalia as each of them took a step closer. Perfectly in time. The closer they got, the closer they would be to helping each other. That was the plan.

Indira took a step closer, her heart pounding. It was a stupid plan. Stupid. As soon as the bear charged, Imalia would run. Why would she risk her life when she could simply escape? For that matter, why was _she _risking her life when she could just run?

_Just run._

In that split second, the decision was made. Indira immediately turned, racing off as fast as she could. But not fast enough. She could hear the bear behind her. _Shit. _She had assumed that, if she ran, the bear would go after Imalia, instead.

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. "Imalia!" Indira called as the bear swiped at her back, tearing through her clothes and grazing her skin. Just a little bit closer, and—

Indira turned in time to see the bear lunge. Another swipe knocked her to the ground. Indira did her best to roll out of the way as the bear raised its paw.

But then something struck the bear's head.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

She struck the bear's head as hard as she could.

Imalia clutched her crowbar tightly and lunged again, this time hitting her mark perfectly, her crowbar digging deep into the bear's eye. Any normal predator would have backed off. Retreated. But this wasn't a predator. It was a mutt. It didn't care about protecting its own life.

And the Gamemakers didn't care if it died, as long as they provided a good show.

Of course, the Gamemakers didn't care if _she _died, either. Or if Indira died. Imalia leapt out of the way as the bear turned on her, blood pouring from its eye socket, its mouth wide. Imalia sidestepped as it lunged, tossing the crowbar in Indira's direction.

Indira sprang to her feet in time to catch the crowbar. Imalia dove out of the way as the bear lunged again, and Indira charged, whacking the bear's head as hard as she could with the crowbar. Imalia, meanwhile, had picked up the nearest branch she could find. As the bear turned on Indira, enraged, Imalia struck at its face with the branch, hoping to disorient it. But the bear wasn't deterred. Imalia watched helplessly as it lunged at Indira, who toppled backwards, desperately holding up Imalia's crowbar as the bear's weight came down on top of her.

Imalia rushed towards the bear, but its growling had quieted to a whimper as it lay atop Indira, blood pooling around it. But whether the blood was only the bear's or Indira's, as well, Imalia couldn't tell. There had been no cannon, but…

Just then, she heard something. A voice from underneath the bear. The bear's body moved a little. Imalia quickly pushed as hard as she could against the bear, and, slowly, Indira rolled out from underneath. Imalia grinned as she saw what had happened. Propelled by its own weight, the bear had impaled itself on the crowbar, allowing Indira just enough room not to be crushed.

Indira grinned, sitting up slowly, propped up against the bear. "We did it!"

Imalia couldn't help smiling as she collapsed, grinning, beside her ally. "_You _did it. You just killed a _bear_!" Indira chuckled a little, and, finally, the two of them burst out laughing, leaning back against the bear in a pool of its blood.

For a while, they sat there, grinning, laughing, simply glad to be alive. _Alive_. The thought brought Imalia back to the moment. They were still alive.

_Both _of them were still alive.

"It would have had me if you hadn't chased it when I ran," Indira pointed out, still a bit out of breath. "Why … why _did _you come after me? I ran. I was going to…"

"I know." _I was going to leave you to die_. That's what she had been about to say, Imalia was sure. "You did exactly what I expected you to," she lied. "You ran at just the right moment. Any sooner, and you might have been too far away for me to reach you in time. Any later, and the bear might have gotten to you before I got to the bear. You timed it perfectly."

"But you could have just left," Indira reasoned. "Why didn't you…?"

There was no answer to that. Not one she wanted to admit, anyway – to Indira or even to herself. That was too dangerous. Instead, she simply shrugged. "Think it through. I run, the bear finishes you off quickly – and then what? It comes after me, anyway, and, this time, I'm alone. I figured we had better odds if we fought it together … and I'd say I was right."

Indira nodded a little. "Thank you."

"It was nothing."

"It was brave."

Maybe. Maybe it had been brave. But 'brave' didn't win the Hunger Games. Brave wouldn't be enough to keep her alive if…

But before her thoughts got any farther, something caught her eye. Blood – and not the bear's. "Lean forward a little." Indira did, revealing a few cuts along her back. They weren't deep, but, if they weren't tended to…

"Let's get those cleaned up," Imalia offered, pulling some of the purple flowers out of her pocket. "I brought some of these along, in case…"

In case _she _had needed them. Imalia quickly pressed the leaves against Indira's wounds, silently chiding herself for making the same mistake Indira had made. Helping Indira now would mean she could put up more of a fight later, when…

But _later _didn't matter. Not now. Imalia carefully bandaged her friend's wounds, then leaned back against the bear's carcass, smiling. None of that mattered right now. Indira grinned, the bear's bloody fur warm against her back.

She couldn't stop laughing.

* * *

**Adelia Luciano, 16  
****District Eight**

She could still hear them laughing.

Adelia gritted her teeth as the laughter continued. It was coming from somewhere nearby. Part of her wanted to try to find them. Maybe to kill them, or maybe to ask them what the hell was so funny about a fight to the death that they hadn't stopped laughing for ten minutes straight.

And the worst part was, they reminded her of herself.

During training, she and Jediah had sat in the hallway, laughing until their sides were sore, until Carolina had come to ask if they were all right. _We're fine. I think we're allies._ But they hadn't been allies. They had never been just allies. They had been friends.

Adelia closed her eyes, trying to ignore the sound. The laughter. The happiness – joy, almost – that seemed to be echoing through the arena. In a way, it was worse than the cannons. Someone was laughing. Happy. Maybe more than one someone. Maybe allies. Friends.

Someone whose friends were still alive.

Slowly, Adelia forced herself to her feet. She couldn't just sit here. Not with another tribute – maybe more than one – so close by. If they were laughing, then maybe they were distracted. Maybe she would be able to sneak up on them. Maybe…

Adelia swayed a little, clutching her knife in her good hand, with Jediah and Nadine's knives tucked safely in her pocket. Not that she could use three knives – or even two – at once. But they had been helpful last time.

"One more time," she whispered, although she knew that was a lie. Even if her plan worked – even if she managed to kill whatever tributes were up ahead – it wouldn't be her last fight. But it was the only one she could worry about right now.

Everything else could wait.

One step. Then another. Closer and closer to the laughter that still hadn't died down. With any luck, whoever was up ahead wouldn't be able to hear her footsteps over the rain and their own laughter. With any luck, they wouldn't know what hit them until they were already dead.

With any luck…

Adelia gripped her knife tightly as she passed the mouth of a river, the water flowing swiftly downstream from some sort of cave in the side of the hill. So far, luck had been on her side. This was her chance. Her chance to show the sponsors that she could still put up a fight despite her injury. That she was still worth supporting. That she still had a chance.

Or maybe it was her chance to convince _herself_.

Slowly. Slowly. Finally, in the fading light, she could see them. Or, at least, she could see _something_. Something that looked like a giant pile of fur. And not one, but _two _tributes propped up against it, still laughing their hearts out. Adelia ducked low. She had been hoping for _one _tribute, not two, and she had been hoping they would be facing the other way. If they saw her…

Suddenly, the laughing stopped. One of them whispered something to the other. Pointed.

Pointed at _her_.

Adelia froze. Should she run? Attack? Try to stay still and hope they were pointing at something else? Could they really see her in this light?

Then one of them turned the light on her helmet on.

_Damn it. _Adelia took off running as fast as she could – downhill, back towards the river. Maybe they wouldn't want to follow her that way. Maybe if she got enough of a head start…

But then she could hear them behind her. Or, at least, _something _was behind her. Adelia whirled around, knife in hand, in time to see a crowbar swinging straight at her head.

She barely dodged in time.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

The girl barely dodged in time.

Indira swung Imalia's crowbar again, this time aiming a little higher as Imalia dove low. The girl was fast, but she couldn't avoid them both. The crowbar found only empty air once more, but Imalia wrapped her arms around the other girl's legs, dragging her to the ground.

The girl's knife flashed in the dark, swiping blindly here and there as she struggled to reach Imalia. Indira circled around, bringing the crowbar down hard. The girl managed to roll out of the way, but only barely. The crowbar smashed into her left arm, but the girl didn't even seem to notice. She just kept swinging.

But as she swung clumsily, Imalia reached up and caught the girl's wrist in her hand, twisting the girl's arm behind her back, holding her in place. The girl cried out in pain, but Indira didn't hesitate. She swung the crowbar as hard as she could, striking the girl's head with a terrible _crack_.

Almost immediately, the cannon sounded.

"Stupid," Imalia muttered. "Why would she come right up to us like that? There's no way she _didn't _know we were there."

"Maybe she didn't realize there were two of us," Indira offered, kneeling down by the girl's body. One of the girls from Eight. "We were being rather … loud. Maybe she thought we were a younger group of tributes."

Younger. For a moment, laughing with Imalia by the bear's body, she had almost felt younger. As if, for a moment, none of this had mattered – the Games, the killing, the quickly dwindling number of tributes. For a moment, it had all been gone.

And that scared her.

Was it that easy to forget? Indira looked down at the blood on her hands, surprised by how quickly she had forgotten. She had attacked the girl without even thinking twice. The third kill she and Imalia had made together.

Had killing simply become an instinct?

Maybe it was better that way. Better not to think too much about it. There would be time for thinking later. When she was back in District Ten. Then she could look back and feel sorry for the girl whose blood now coated the ground beside them. But not now. Not yet.

When. _When_ she was back in District Ten. Indira knelt down beside Imalia, who was rummaging through the girl's pockets for supplies. "Three knives," Imalia nodded, producing two more in addition to the one in the girl's hand, as well as a hammer tucked inside another pocket. "Not bad." She held two of the knives to Indira, who handed her crowbar back.

"Not bad at all," Indira agreed.

And maybe it wasn't.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

Maybe this wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought.

Domingo flinched as the sound of another cannon filled the air. Another tribute dead. Six of them left.

And he was still alive.

Smiling a little, he started to pick up the pace. His leg was beginning to feel a little better, now that he was actually moving. What rest he'd gotten had helped at least a bit. And another tribute was dead. Only five more to go.

Only five more until he could go home.

Until. Domingo smiled a little at the thought. He hadn't realized how much he missed District Seven. The trees. His friends. Even his parents and his older brother. Sure, they could be a pain now and then, but at least they meant well.

And at least they weren't trying to kill him.

Not that they had ever tried to kill _anyone_, of course. His parents, his brother – they would never even _think _of trying to kill someone else. And here he was, with three kills. Three tributes – three other _people_ – who were dead because of him.

Domingo leaned a bit harder against the stick he was using as a crutch. It wasn't _his _fault. He hadn't _asked _to be in the Games. Any of them – his parents, his friends, even his brother – would be doing the same thing in his position.

But they weren't in his position.

Domingo shook his head. He had never really thought about it – about what the others might think if he came home. _When _he came home. But now that it was seeming more and more possible, he couldn't help but wonder. Would things – _could _things – ever go back to the way they were?

Maybe not. But the important thing was that he would still be alive. With six tributes left, he was still alive. Still fighting.

But it wasn't over yet.

The sudden sound of rushing water made Domingo stop short. He had been so lost in thought, he almost hadn't noticed the river. But now he could see it in the dim light. A rising river, blocking his path.

Great.

Domingo shifted his weight back to his uninjured leg. What was the point in leading him this way if he was just going to end up trapped by a river? He glanced around frantically for a moment, but he didn't see anyone. They hadn't led him into a trap – at least, not one that had been sprung yet.

So how was he supposed to get across?

Then he saw it – just a little farther downriver. A fallen tree, stretched out across the river. Domingo smiled. _Perfect_. The tree was thick and full of branches for him to grab.

It was almost too easy.

As quickly as he could, glancing around for any sort of trap, Domingo made his way across the makeshift bridge. Once he was safely on the other side, he let out a small chuckle. Maybe the Gamemakers really _were _trying to help him. Maybe he had managed to impress someone.

Or maybe there simply weren't any better options left.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

There weren't any good options.

Thane crouched as low as he could against the side of the hill, trying to stay as still as possible, hoping the girls wouldn't notice him. Still hoping to avoid a fight. The fight hadn't turned out so well for the girl from Eight, after all, and now the two girls were even better armed than before.

Not that he would have tried to take them on, anyway. There were two of them. One of him. And, from the look of their helmets, they were the ones who had found the greenhouse, who had killed Sariya and Audra. One of them was limping a bit as they made their way back uphill, and the other's back was bandaged. But Thane wasn't fooled. He wasn't about to attack them if there was another option.

But the fact remained that there _weren't _very many other options. He could head back downhill, but the water was continuing to rise. At the rate it was going, it would be quite a while before the waters rose enough to pose a threat, but there was no guarantee that the water would continue to rise as slowly as it had been – especially if he started to turn back and go the other way.

Thane glanced at the compass in his hand, still pointing uphill – but not towards the girls. Instead, it was pointing off to his right. What was over there? _Who _was over there? There weren't very many tributes left, after all. Only six, in fact – and two of them were in front of him, heading back up the hill the way they had come. He was another. So there were three more.

How many of them was the compass pointing him towards?

Thane shook his head. If the compass wasn't leading him into a fight with the two girls, then there was probably only one up ahead. Only one tribute. That was a better option. And, after the faces appeared, he would have a better idea of who it might be.

He would just have to wait a little longer.

Thane watched as the two girls disappeared up the hill. Maybe waiting wasn't such a bad thing. He had waited, after all, when he had heard the pair of them laughing. He had been tempted to attack, as the girl had, while they had appeared to be distracted. But his patience had paid off. They hadn't noticed him. The other girl was dead.

And he was still alive.

That was the important thing, in the end. It didn't matter – not really – whether the two girls died now or whether they died later. It didn't matter whether he was the one to kill them. He only had one kill to his name, but that had been enough so far. Maybe he didn't need to do anything incredibly impressive. Maybe he just needed to keep doing what he had always done: survive.

Maybe that would be enough.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

Maybe she had rested long enough.

Myrah leaned back against the stone wall, which, she was pretty sure, was starting to grow a bit wetter. Maybe the water on the other side was beginning to leak through. Or maybe it was simply her imagination. Either way, she couldn't stay here forever.

Just as she was beginning to get up, however, the Capitol anthem began. Myrah sank back to the ground again, watching as the first faces began to appear in the sky.

The first were a pair of Careers – the girls from One and Two. How many Careers did that leave? One or two, maybe. One of the boys from Four, at least – the one they had seen leaving the building when they had arrived. She was beginning to lose track. There had been so many of them to begin with…

Aleron's face was next. Myrah nodded a little. She had known, of course, that the cannon was his, but there was something important – a certain finality – about seeing his face in the sky. He hadn't found a way to escape this time. He was gone.

But so was Evander, whose face appeared next. Myrah swallowed hard, forcing back a lump in her throat. Maybe she wouldn't miss Aleron, but Evander had always been kind.

That was probably what had gotten him killed.

One of the boys from Four was next – the boy who had been at the stone building. Another Career gone. Was that all of them?

Adelia's face was next. Myrah stared, not quite believing it. Adelia. Aleron and Evander. Jediah and Nadine. Her whole alliance was gone. Five of them were dead.

And _she _was the one who was left.

Myrah shook her head as the last face appeared. Melody, her own district partner.

That left only her and Thane from her district. Only her from her alliance. Myrah shook her head, staring out into the darkness as the faces faded from the sky. Six tributes left. Only six.

And she was one of them.

Who would have expected _that_, when her name had been called at the reaping? For that matter, who would have expected that not one, but _two _of District Nine's tributes would be left in the final six?

Myrah fingered one of her knives carefully. Final eight. Final six. Final three. None of that really mattered. The only thing that mattered was the final _one_. There were six tributes left, yes, but only one of them could survive.

So, as much as she hated thinking it, maybe it was a good thing that the rest of her alliance was gone. Maybe Aleron had been right when he had suggested that she go with him not because she trusted him, but because she _hadn't_. Because he wasn't someone she would have laid down her life for. Because he was someone who, in the end, she had been willing to kill.

And maybe, when it came down to it, she would have been willing to kill Adelia and Evander. But part of her was grateful that she would never have to find out. They were gone. And she was still here.

She was still alive.

* * *

**Philus Polaine, 13  
****District Eleven**

He was still alive.

Philus shook his head. Part of him still couldn't believe it. If his count was right – and the faces in the sky confirmed that it was, unless he had lost track somewhere – then there were only six tributes left. Only six. Six tributes left, and he was still alive.

But that wasn't going to be enough.

Philus lay down, curled up against the nearest tree, where he had been sitting ever since Melody had died. Ever since he had killed her. How long had that been? It was all starting to blur together. Everything was getting a bit fuzzy.

Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the constant rain that was clouding everything. Or maybe it simply didn't matter anymore. Maybe it didn't matter how much time had passed – or how much time he had left.

Maybe it would be better if it just ended.

After all, there were worse ways to go. There were certainly better ways, of course. Being warm and dry and comfortable – that would be better. Having someone with him – that would be better.

Maybe he should have let Melody kill him. At least then, she would have a chance. And one of his allies having a chance was better than nothing.

Because nothing was what he had at the moment. No food. No supplies except two useless knives. And no strength left.

Philus closed his eyes. He could almost see them – Elani and Pan. Melody and Baylor. Even Shale. The older boy had never been an ally, maybe, but at least he had been a district partner.

But all of them were gone. And, soon, he would be joining them.

Maybe it was for the best.

How could he ever have lived with himself? Philus swallowed hard. In just the short time since he'd killed Melody, he already regretted it. Would he really have been able to live with that regret for the rest of his life? And what about the boy from Six? He and Melody had killed the older boy. The boy had killed Baylor. Baylor had killed … he had never been quite clear on who, exactly, Baylor had killed, but he was relatively sure the boy had killed someone.

Maybe none of them deserved to make it out alive.

He certainly didn't. He had abandoned two allies. Left a third to be killed by another tribute. Killed the last one himself. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it would be better if he simply fell asleep.

Maybe it would be better if he never woke up.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

Maybe it would be better to stop for the night.

Domingo brushed another tree branch away from his face as he stumbled uphill in the dark. An occasional flash of lightning provided enough light to see by – but only for a split second. Only enough to see a few steps before the light was gone, and only the dark and the rain were left.

But, still, something urged him on. Maybe it was the sound of the river, so far behind him. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could swear he still heard it, slowly rising. If he stopped for the night, would it catch up to him? Right now, he was far enough ahead of the water. He didn't have to worry about it drowning him. But if he stopped…

Just a little farther.

Just a few more steps. Then a few more. One step after another. Slowly, he made his way up the hill.

Only then did he see the boy.

It was one of the younger tributes, curled up beneath a large tree. Asleep. Maybe even injured. Domingo crept a little closer. Then a little more. Still, the boy didn't seem to notice him. Silently, Domingo slid the knife out of his pocket. Could it really be that easy?

Maybe. Maybe that was why the Gamemakers had led him here. Why they had been so insistent that he continue in this direction. Why they had even provided a path across the river for him. How long had the boy simply been lying here? Maybe they had wanted _someone _to come along and finish him off.

So why was he hesitating?

Domingo gripped his knife tightly, taking another step closer. He was practically right on top of the other boy. This was too easy. There had to be a catch.

Didn't there?

Domingo clenched his teeth. _Really? _After fighting a Career, was he really fretting about the fact that this kill was going to be too easy?

_Just get it over with._

Domingo knelt down next to the boy, knife in hand. Quietly, he reached over, positioned his knife over the younger boy's neck, and drew his knife across the boy's throat.

The cannon sounded before the boy even had a chance to wake up.

Domingo sat down beside the body, nodding. He wiped the blood off the knife, then sorted through the boy's pockets. He found a pair of knives – nothing else. A closer look at the body also revealed a few hastily-bandaged injuries, as well as a particularly nasty gash across the boy's face.

Maybe killing him had been the kindest thing to do.

Domingo shook the thought from his head. He didn't have to worry about that right now. He didn't have to worry about being _kind_. There were only five tributes left. None of them had the luxury of being _kind _to each other.

Not if they wanted to make it out alive.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He still had to make it past the two girls.

Thane crouched close to the ground as he made his way along the slope, keeping as far away from the top of the hill as he could. The two of them were still up there, after all – as long as the most recent cannon hadn't been one of theirs.

It probably hadn't. Neither of them had seemed particularly interested in killing the other. So the two of them were up there. He was heading away from them. And the compass was leading him towards … someone.

The options were a bit more limited now. The two girls, he had figured out, were from Four and Ten. How they had ended up working together, he wasn't sure, but he _was _pretty sure the girl from Four was the only Career left. Maybe they had simply found each other and decided not to fight, as he and Evander had. Maybe they were waiting for the right time.

The right time would have to be soon, though. There were only five tributes left. And his best hope was that they would realize that and turn on each other before they could come looking for him.

So who else was left? Myrah, he was pretty sure. That seemed strange – his youngest district partner was only fourteen, after all – but he didn't remember seeing her face in the sky. Did that mean she was the one the compass was leading him towards?

Maybe. There _was _a "9" on the back of the compass, after all. He had assumed that meant it had led Evander to him. But what if it was meant to lead him to Myrah?

Then what? Thane gripped his knife tightly as he made his way along the slope. Did the Gamemakers expect him to kill Myrah? Maybe. During their private training sessions with the Gamemakers, he and Sariya had easily defeated Melody and Myrah, after all. But the two younger girls had received almost as high a score as Sariya.

Did that mean Myrah had been holding something back?

Maybe. And, in any case, she was still alive. There were only five tributes left, and, somehow, she had made it this far. So it certainly wouldn't do to underestimate her.

But was there really another option? This late in the Games, could he risk another temporary alliance with anyone – even his own district partner? Maybe if he convinced her that they would have a better chance against the two girls together…

And maybe they would. After all, even if he managed to kill Myrah, he would still have to face the two of them … and whoever the fifth tribute was. Thane shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to remember who the last tribute would be. There had been so many of them…

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe if he went after Myrah, the Gamemakers would drive the two girls towards the last tribute, and then he could take on whoever was left by himself.

But was that a fight he could expect to win?

_One thing at a time. _First, he had to keep moving. Whether he was going to attack her or attempt to ally with her, first he had to _find _Myrah – assuming she was, in fact, the one the Gamemakers were leading him towards.

Assuming they weren't leading him into a trap.

* * *

**Lander Katzung  
****District Eight Mentor**

She had walked right into a trap.

Lander sighed and set his drink down beside Carolina's. Another year gone, and now Adelia was dead. Maybe he should have known better than to get his hopes up. But Adelia had been so close…

"There was nothing we could have done." Carolina took his hand reassuringly. After so many years, the words came naturally to both of them. They were still true, but knowing there was nothing either of them could have done to prevent this – it didn't make it any easier.

Lander glanced over towards the other side of the bar, where Kit and Avery sat in a corner, talking softly. Talking. At least Kit was talking again. If nothing else, at least one good thing had come out of these wretched Games.

One good thing. One good thing didn't outweigh the thousands of bad things that had come from the Games. The forty-one lives that had already been ended this year. The four more tributes who would die before the Games were over. The six children from District Eight who would never be coming home.

Nothing would ever be able to make up for that.

Just then, something caught his eye. Something about the way Kit and Avery were talking. Something was off. There were tears in Kit's eyes, but that wasn't unusual. District Eight had just lost their last tribute, after all. No, it was Avery who was a little off. She didn't look particularly _sad_ – just blank.

Lander quickly slid down out of his seat and turned to Carolina. "I'll be back in a little while. Keep an eye on Avery."

Carolina cocked an eyebrow. "Avery?"

Lander nodded. "Don't let her leave."

"But how should I—"

Lander shook his head. She would come up with something. She always did. "Just don't let her leave, Care."

"And where are you going?"

Lander glanced around. "I have a call to make."

* * *

**Vester Pierce  
****District Two Mentor**

It was past midnight when the phone rang.

Vester sighed. He hadn't been asleep, anyway. A bit drunk, maybe, but not nearly as drunk as when he'd been the one mentoring. But even now that others had taken over his duties as a mentor, he still had a hard time sleeping during the Games.

But who would be calling at this hour?

Vester reached for the phone. It took him a couple tries to find it, but he finally managed to answer. "Hello?" Maybe it was a prank. Occasionally, one of the trainees would call him up to ask him questions he had no intention of answering. But even they didn't usually call in the middle of the Games…

"Vester." He could already hear the relief in the voice on the other side. "Thank you for answering. I know it's—"

"Lander?" He couldn't quite be sure over the pounding in his ears, but there weren't too many options for who would be calling him during the Games. "Do you know what time it is?"

"I know. Believe me, I know. And I'm sorry – I really am – but I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't important."

Vester sighed. His idea of 'important' and Lander's weren't always the same thing. But his voice sounded urgent. Desperate, almost. "So what is it?"

"I don't want to talk over the phone."

"Lander, if you're planning—"

"I'm not planning anything. I just don't want this getting out, and I don't know who besides the Capitol might be listening. Can you come?"

_Can you come? _ "To the Capitol? Now? Right _now_?"

"Yes."

"Lander, what could you possibly need me to do in the Capitol that I can't do from here?"

There was a pause. "Something I once did for you."

It took Vester a moment to piece that together. But, finally, he sighed, got out of bed, and switched the lights on.

"I'll do what I can."

* * *

"_I did not ask for the life that I was given. But it was given, nonetheless. And with it... I did my best."_


	49. Together

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games isn't mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't already. Also, my sister could still use a few more tributes. The deadline is technically today, but she's willing to extend it a little if you're working on one.

* * *

**Day Six  
****Together**

* * *

**Vernon Barrow  
****District Six Mentor**

Why would they choose to do something now?

Vernon stared at the screen, his vision still a bit blurry from the drinks, as the president rambled on. Something about a riot in District Six. Of course. Of course they would riot now. This year. Not the year his son had died in the Games. But _now_.

And because of what? The death of their six tributes? A murderer, two teens the district was convinced were witches, a petty criminal, and two others who were … well, who were certainly not much different than any other year's tributes. Why this year? Why now?

Vernon shook his head as the president continued. "The reasons for these unprovoked attacks remain unclear. Merely twenty-four hours ago, the situation looked grim. But, following an explosion in one of District Six's warehouses – an explosion caused by rebel forces – one voice spoke out for peace."

Vernon sprayed his drink all over his shirt as President Grisom's face was replaced with a more familiar one. Nicodemus. Vernon glanced around the room, startled to see that his fellow mentor was, in fact, still missing. Instead, his voice echoed from the screen. "When the blood and the fear and the destruction have become too great, we have to take a step back and think – _really _think – about what we're hoping to accomplish. Do we want revenge? Or do we want something better? Something greater? Do we have what it takes to work together to bring about what we all really want: peace?"

"Be the people who stand up and say, _No. I'm better than that. _You _are _better than that. _We _are better than that. Stronger than that. We have a choice today. We can be a voice calling out for revenge, for blood, for war. Or we can be a voice that cries out for peace. The choice is mine. And it is yours. Make your choice."

Vernon chuckled a little as Nicodemus' face faded from the screen. Still naïve, despite everything. As if people really had a choice. As if people could simply _choose _not to be violent, not to seek revenge, not to care that their loved ones were dead. It wasn't that easy, but if Nicodemus was stubborn enough to believe that it was, after everything he'd been through, well, that was his problem.

Because there weren't really any better alternatives. The Capitol was ruthless, cruel, harsh – that much was certain. But the rebels – however many of them there were, whoever was left – were they really any better? How long had they stood by and done nothing, waiting for what they considered to be the right time to move? And they were just as careless about who got in their way as the Capitol was.

Fortunately, that wasn't his problem. His only problem was how long it would be before their bartender came back. Brennan had been filling in ever since Eldred had disappeared, but it wasn't the same. Funny, really, how quickly he'd gotten used to Eldred.

Or maybe he was just too drunk to care.

That was probably it. Vernon glanced up at the screen, where the president was babbling again. "Just as disloyalty must be punished, loyalty will not go unrewarded. Despite the events of last year's Games, and despite the incidents in Districts Four and Six this year, most of you have remained loyal. The tributes have remained loyal. And so, as we near the end of the Games, I make you a promise: your loyalty will be rewarded. Next year, the number of replacement tributes will be reduced to one per tribute who participated in last year's rebellion. Provided there are no further … incidents … the need for replacement tributes will be eliminated following the Second Quarter Quell. Thank you for your time – and for your continued loyalty."

Vernon nearly burst out laughing. What a joke! Six tributes, four tributes, two tributes – none of that mattered. Not really. The numbers weren't important – but, as long as the president pretended they were, then he could appear merciful … all while ripping their children away from their families and sending them off to die.

And no one could do a thing about it.

* * *

**Eloise Davies  
****District Nine Mentor**

No one seemed to understand what this really meant.

Eloise turned her drink in her hands, glancing around at her fellow mentors. A few were nodding along with the president. Most were smiling. How much of their relief, their gratitude, was genuine, and how much of it was an act, she wasn't sure.

Eloise took a drink. It was an act. It had to be.

How could the Capitol expect them to be grateful?

A reward for loyalty. _Only three of your children will be taken to their deaths instead of four. _What sort of a reward was that? Had everyone forgotten so quickly that it was President Grisom who had called for the increase in tributes in the first place? Couldn't they see that the numbers weren't really the important thing? Four tributes, three, two – it didn't matter. As long as one child was being torn away from their family to fight for the Capitol's entertainment, it was wrong.

_Do we want revenge? Or do we want something better?_

Eloise took another drink. She had hoped that Nicodemus, of all people, would be sympathetic towards any sort of rebellion. Now, she was glad she hadn't gone to him. Hadn't gone to anyone. She would have to be more careful than that. One wrong move – one wrong decision about who she could trust – and it would all be over.

Eloise turned her attention back to the screen. Domingo, Imalia, and Indira had settled down for the night. Thane was still moving swiftly in Myrah's direction, while Myrah had started wandering uphill from the stone building where she had been resting. _As we near the end of the Games, _Grisom had said. And things certainly did seem to be drawing to an end.

But whether that was good or bad, she wasn't sure.

Five tributes left. Five tributes, and both Myrah and Thane were still alive. But if the Gamemakers drove them together – as they certainly seemed to be doing – then what would happen? Would they be forced to fight each other? Or…

It must have occurred to Thane, if he had figured out where the compass was leading him, that maybe an alliance would be more beneficial. Imalia and Indira, after all, were still alive – and still together. And Thane knew that. Would he be willing to ally with a district partner – even one as young as Myrah – long enough to take them on?

And, even if he did, could the two of them hope to be successful? The two girls had taken down Audra and Sariya without much trouble. They'd fought tributes, a boar, and a polar bear – and come out on top every time. Could Thane and Myrah together hope to accomplish what the other tributes had been unable to?

Eloise shook her head. They had a better chance together than either of them would have alone. Surely they would realize that. But Thane's alliance with Evander and Myrah's alliance with Aleron had both ended with them killing their temporary ally. Would either of them be willing to trust the other?

Eloise took another drink. Maybe that was the worst part of the Games, in the end. The fact that people died – yes, it was terrible, but the awful truth was that people died every day in the districts. No, the worst part of the Games was that it took friendships – friendships that had been formed over the course of a few days, yes, but friendships nonetheless – and destroyed them. Trust. Honesty. Loyalty. The Games destroyed them all, one way or another.

Loyalty. Grisom had said that loyalty would be rewarded. And maybe that was true. But only loyalty to the Capitol. Loyalty to a district, to friends, to family, to one's own self – none of that was appreciated anymore. Not in any way that mattered, at least. Occasionally, people would praise tributes' loyalty to their allies, but there was always an understanding that that sort of loyalty wouldn't last forever – not if the tributes wanted to win.

And she was no exception – she knew that, at least. After losing most of her allies in the bloodbath, she'd killed the last one, a boy named Gavis who had been injured in the fighting. Not because she believed it would be less painful. Not because she wanted to spare him a slow death. But because she had been worried that his screams might attract the other tributes. Her own loyalty hadn't survived the first day of her Games, and it was now the sixth.

Eloise turned back to the screen. It wasn't loyalty that might prompt Thane and Myrah into an alliance. It was convenience. The opportunity to take down a greater threat. And maybe that would be enough – enough to keep both of them alive a little longer.

But, in the end, only one could live.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

In the end, only one of them could live.

Imalia leaned back against the polar bear's body as she and Indira ate some of the food they had taken from the greenhouse. They still had more than enough. There were only five tributes left, after all. They might as well eat what they had left while they still had the chance.

While they still had the chance. While they were still alive. Imalia glanced over at Indira, who was also eating as much as possible. No point in saving it now. Not when tomorrow would probably be the last day of the Games.

The last day. Maybe _her _last day. Imalia swallowed hard, forcing down a bit of carrot. She'd been trying not to think about that. She was still alive, after all. Five tributes left, and she was one of them.

But five was a long way from one.

Imalia turned the carrot over in her hands. It felt so different now – the numbers. When they had started with forty-six, every cannon had seemed like an accomplishment. Every cannon brought them one step closer to the end. But now, it seemed, each cannon only brought them closer and closer to something more inevitable.

Each cannon brought them closer to the point when they would have to turn on each other.

Imalia took another bite of her carrot. She had known that from the start. They both had. But every hour, every cannon, every moment they spent eating and laughing – it only made it more real. Eventually, they would be forced to turn on each other. Eventually, Indira would have to die.

Or _she _would have to die.

Imalia leaned back against the bear's body. No. No, she wasn't going to die. Not when she had fought so hard to stay alive.

But hadn't Indira fought just as hard?

Imalia glanced over at her ally. At the bandages that covered her back, the knife in her hand. She had fought just as fiercely. Worked just as hard. She deserved a victory as much as anyone – maybe even as much as Imalia did.

But victory wasn't about who deserved it. It was about who was willing to claim it. Who was willing to do anything – _anything _– to survive.

She had always been convinced that she could. And, so far, she had been right. She had five kills, after all. Some of them she had shared with Indira, yes, but five kills nonetheless. Five tributes who were dead at her hands – and maybe a few more because of her words, if Delvin had, in fact, been the one to kill Shale and Jarlan. Didn't that prove she was willing to do anything?

But Indira…

_Stop it. _She wasn't any closer to Indira than she had been to Jarlan. Killing her – if it came to that – wouldn't be any different than sending Jarlan and Shale to their deaths.

Would it?

Imalia closed her eyes, sinking back into the bear's fur. It was different. If she and Jarlan had been facing the bear together, instead, and Jarlan had run – and if the bear had gone after him – she would have let him go. She would have let the bear take care of him. But she hadn't let the bear kill Indira. She'd thought about it, as she and Indira had been approaching the bear, but, in that moment, when her ally had bolted, she hadn't thought twice. She had risked her life so that they could take on the bear together.

But how much longer could 'together' last?

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

How much longer did he have before the water caught up to him?

Domingo glanced down the hill once more, as if watching would somehow stop the water from slowly creeping its way up the slope. The water was rising faster now – as if it wasn't simply rising due to the rain. As if maybe the island itself was starting to sink.

But where else was he supposed to go? As far as he could see in the dark and the rain, he was already at the highest point in the area. There was nowhere else to go.

So maybe he should simply wait for the other tributes to come to him.

There weren't many of them left, after all. The Gamemakers would have to start driving them together soon. Maybe he was already right where they wanted him. And if that was the case, maybe it was better to be well-rested by the time the others arrived.

But, on the other hand, sleeping now could be a terrible mistake. The boy he'd just killed had made the same mistake, after all. It probably hadn't been his first mistake, judging by his injuries, but it had certainly been his last. And that was a mistake Domingo certainly didn't want to make.

Because as frightened as he'd been when the girl from Two had attacked, as terrified as he'd been at the thought that he might die … at least he had been awake. He'd had the chance to fight. The other boy – he'd never had the chance. And maybe that had been kinder. More merciful. But it wasn't the sort of death he wanted for himself.

Not that he wanted to die at all, but if he did … well, fighting seemed like a better way to go. At least then he could try to take his opponent out with him. That was better than nothing.

Not dying, of course, would be even better.

Domingo sighed and sat down next to the tree, stretching his legs. Staying awake it was, then. It wouldn't be long, after all. Four more tributes. Four more deaths. Just a little while, and he would either be safe, and he could rest as long as he wanted, or he would be dead, and none of it would matter.

Domingo swallowed hard, fingering his knife. That was the worst part, really. If he died now, none of it would matter. It wouldn't matter that he made it to the final five. It wouldn't matter that he'd made four kills. If he died now, he would be dead – and that was it. His family would remember him, of course, but, to everyone else, he would simply be another tribute who didn't quite make it. Another tribute who died in the Games.

After all, how many tributes who had placed fourth or third – or even second – did he remember? Not many, that was for sure. He vaguely remembered that Avery's district partner had been her last kill. Kit's two allies had made it to the end with him. But their names? Their faces? Anything else about them? No. No, all of that was lost to everyone but their families and friends.

He wouldn't let that happen to him.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She had told herself she wouldn't let this happen.

Indira turned her knife over in her hands. How many times had she thought about leaving Imalia? Or even about killing her? And yet here they were, in the final five – and stronger allies than they had been before.

Indira shifted, stretching her legs. Immediately, Imalia's eyes shot open. Indira smiled a little. Allies, maybe. But, this late in the Games, did anyone really trust each other anymore? Maybe. Occasionally. But those tributes had a tendency to end up dead.

And she didn't want that to happen to her.

Indira clutched her knife tighter. She _couldn't _let that happen. Not now. Not after everything she'd done. Not after fighting so hard. She couldn't let it all go to waste now, when they were so close.

No. Not _they_. She was close. It just so happened that Imalia was, too. They were both close – so close to the end. But only one of them could make it. Only one of the five tributes who were left – five tributes who had made it so far – could survive.

And she meant for it to be her.

"I wouldn't blame you if you want to leave."

Imalia's words caught her off-guard. Indira had assumed she had been discreet enough about her desire to leave. But, apparently, Imalia had picked up on her train of thought. Or maybe it was simply a lucky guess. Or maybe she had been thinking of doing the same thing…

"I…" Indira hesitated. Imalia was practically giving her _permission _to do what she'd been thinking of doing for days. Not that she needed permission, but that did mean that Imalia wouldn't try to stop her. Wouldn't try to kill her for leaving.

Of course not. If Imalia had wanted her dead, she could have simply let the bear kill her. Or, even if her story about wanting to take on the bear together held up, Imalia could have killed her easily while she was still crawling out from under the bear's carcass, or while she had bandaged her injuries. But she hadn't.

"It _is _the final five," Indira hesitated. "I don't want to end up…" She trailed off, not really sure how that sentence should end. _I don't want to end up killing you _was what she had been about to say. But if they split up, then that amounted to saying that she hoped someone _else _would kill Imalia before she had to.

Was that really any better?

And who else was left, anyway? Was there really anyone else she could count on being able to kill Imalia? Or, if they split up, would they simply end up facing each other again in the finale? At least if she stayed with Imalia now, she would be able to keep track of where she was. And if she had the opportunity…

"Maybe we should stick together – for a little while, at least," Indira suggested. "There are two tributes from Nine left, I think – unless the last cannon was one of theirs. If they're working together…"

That was a stretch. And, from the look on Imalia's face, she knew it, too. The girl who was left was one of the replacement tributes; the boy wasn't. The chances of them finding each other – and then allying – were slim.

But who else was left? One of the younger tributes from Eleven, and one of the tributes from Seven. And of the four of them, one was already dead. Did any of them really pose enough of a threat to justify staying together?

Apparently, Imalia thought so – or, at least, was as willing to use it as an excuse – because she nodded. "A little while longer, then," she agreed. But they both knew. If they didn't split up now, they would be together until one of them died, or until they had to turn on each other.

She wasn't sure which was the better option.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He still wasn't sure which was the better option.

Thane glanced at the compass once more, even though the direction hadn't changed for at least half an hour. Maybe more. How long had he been walking? Shouldn't he have come across someone by now? Was Myrah hiding somewhere? Waiting for a chance to jump out and kill him?

Was that how she had made it this far? Thane glanced around, surprised to find the knife in his hand was shaking. What was he so afraid of? Myrah was fourteen, after all. One of the youngest tributes in the Games. Chances were, it was luck that had brought her this far. Luck that had led her to the final five.

But what if it wasn't?

Thane took a deep breath, wondering – not for the first time – if he should turn the light on his helmet on. It might attract attention, of course – but wasn't that the idea? He _meant _to find Myrah, after all. Maybe it didn't particularly matter whether he found her, or whether she found him.

But maybe it did.

If she found him, and didn't wait to listen to his suggestion that they ally to take on the Careers – if she simply attacked, instead – then she would have the upper hand, however briefly. But chances were, if she was anywhere nearby, she already knew he was there. He wasn't exactly being quiet. Not that he was purposely attracting attention – and not that he was laughing like the two girls had been – but he'd made no particular effort to cover up the sound of his footsteps, the sound of the branches breaking as he stepped on them or as he brushed them out of the way. If she was nearby, and if she wanted to attack, she could have done so by now. _Should _have done so by now.

After all, that's probably what he would have done. Thane shook his head. If it was Myrah approaching him about an alliance this late in the Games, in order to take on two Careers – and if he had no way of knowing whether that was the truth or not – would he really accept? Would he even consider her offer?

But certainly it was worth a try. Because the more he thought about it, the more he didn't want to take on the two girls alone. And he wasn't sure who the last tribute was – one of the younger boys, maybe – but they would have even less of a reason to trust him. At least he and Myrah were district partners.

District partners. What did that really mean, in the end? Did it really matter that the two of them just happened to be from the same district? They hadn't known each other before the reaping. Their families didn't know each other. He couldn't even remember Myrah's last name, let alone anything else about her. He'd spent his time on the train with Eloise along with Sariya; Myrah and Melody had split off to get advice from Crispin. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea – avoiding his younger district partners, allying with the oldest, strongest one. Sariya had seemed like a better choice – certainly a more natural choice.

But had she been the wrong choice?

Thane shook the thought from his head. If he had allied with Melody or Myrah, instead, they would have been separated at the start of the Games. Chances were, they wouldn't have found each other, anyway. Chances were, it would have made no difference.

Probably.

And probably was all he had. Myrah was probably the one the Gamemakers were leading him towards. She would probably listen. The two of them would probably be able to take on the Careers – or, at the very least, make a better fight out of it than he would have been able to on his own.

But was it really a fight they could win?

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

Was this really a fight she could win?

Myrah ducked lower as Thane approached, still glancing around, looking for someone. For _her_. He had no way, of course, of knowing that she was nearby. How could he? She hadn't seen him since the night before the Games. And they had spoken very little before that. The fact that he was her district partner … Did it really mean anything this late in the Games?

Myrah clutched her knife tightly. That wasn't why she was hesitating. Not really. She didn't really know Thane. He had never done anything to her, of course – not like Aleron – but he had never been particularly kind, either. And he and Sariya had gone after Myrah and Melody during their private session with the Gamemakers, despite Myrah's pleading with them to wait, to stop. He hadn't shown her any mercy then.

Why should she expect anything different now?

Myrah gritted her teeth. He hadn't waited. Why should she? But that had been practice. With wooden staffs. She had never been in any real danger. If she attacked him now, it would be real. She might be able to kill him, but it was just as likely – if not more so – that _he _would be the one to kill _her_.

He had won, after all, that day with the Gamemakers. And he'd gotten a higher score. But none of that mattered now. They were both here, in the final five. And maybe it wasn't an accident. Maybe she hadn't done anything particularly spectacular, but she had earned it – the right to be here. Her allies were gone. And she was still alive. Maybe she really _did _deserve to be here. To be alive.

Maybe she _did _deserve to go home.

But part of the reason she was still alive – part of the reason she had made it this far – was because she had known when _not _to fight. She _hadn't_ attacked Aleron when the two had found each other again. The two of them _hadn't _attacked the boy from Four when they'd seen him leaving the stone building. She had waited. She had been patient.

But how much longer could she wait?

"Myrah?"

Myrah froze. For one terrible moment, her stomach churned, and her heart seemed to stop. "Myrah?" Thane repeated. But he wasn't looking at her. He hadn't seen her. Was he only guessing? Did he know, somehow?

Then he glanced down at something in his hand. Myrah peered closer. He was holding something. Something small and round.

A compass.

So he _did _know. Somehow, he knew she was here. Or nearby, at least. Myrah shook her head. She had assumed that, if she attacked, surprise would be on her side. But if it wasn't…

"Myrah?" Thane called again, this time pulling something from his pocket. A knife. Myrah tensed, but Thane dropped the knife. For a moment, she thought that maybe it had slipped from his hand in the rain, but, slowly, she realized he had meant to drop it. He was offering a truce. Maybe even an alliance.

The only question was whether or not she should accept.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

The only question was what Myrah would do now.

Thane glanced around, waiting for the younger tribute to show herself. For the last few minutes, his compass had started spinning wildly in a circle. So either the Gamemakers were toying with him, or she was close. Close enough that the needle wasn't going to point directly to her. Maybe they figured that would spoil the game.

Or maybe it hadn't been leading him to Myrah, after all.

He had only been assuming, of course, that it would lead him to his district partner. But was she still alive? Had the cannon that had sounded since the faces had appeared been hers? Was the compass leading him to someone else entirely?

Or was she simply waiting for the right moment?

Thane took a step away from his knife, waiting. He still had time. If she attacked, he would still have plenty of time to scoop it up again. But laying it down, he had hoped, would draw her out. Maybe make her curious enough to wait before attacking.

Seconds passed. Seconds that felt like hours. Thane swallowed hard. Maybe he should simply pick up his knife again and move on. Maybe if she thought he was about to leave…

Just as he took a step closer to his weapon, however, Myrah stepped out from behind one of the larger trees, her own knife drawn. Thane nodded a little. "Good."

Myrah cocked an eyebrow. "Good?"

"I'm glad it's you," Thane reasoned, holding out his compass. "It had a nine on the back, so I was assuming it would be you, but … well, you never know."

"No, you don't," Myrah agreed, taking a step closer. But not close enough to use the knife in her hand. In fact, she was eyeing _his _knife, still on the ground by his feet. "Where did you get that?"

It took Thane a moment to put it together. Evander's knife, and the striking resemblance it bore to the knife that Myrah was holding. Of course. They had been allies. So he had to be careful…

"A tribute I met," Thane answered. "He was looking for someone, but he found me, instead. We were allies – if only for a short while. The Careers found us, and he was killed, so I took his knife, and—"

"He was looking for someone?" For a moment, Myrah's voice broke. Could _she _have been the one Evander had been looking for when he and Thane had found each other, instead? Had they gotten separated, or had she left him? If she had left, was she blaming herself for his death?

Could he use that?

"You were his ally," Thane pretended to realize. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized … of course. It's just that there were so many of you, and…"

"Six of us," Myrah nodded. "They're all gone now. All of them. I…" Were those tears in her eyes? In the dark, Thane couldn't quite tell. Could he get that lucky? Had she made it this far simply because of her alliance? Maybe.

"My allies are all gone, too," Thane nodded. "How did you two get separated?"

"I … I left. I thought that if I went after another tribute by myself, the Gamemakers would … but everything went wrong. I should never have left them." She _was _crying. Thane took a step closer. "I should have stayed. He was coming after me. If I hadn't left…"

"If you hadn't left, he would never have come after you," Thane agreed. "But then he would never have found me. He saved my life, Myrah, when the Careers came. He was brave – right up to the end. I wish I had known him better."

Myrah nodded, venturing a little bit closer, lowering her knife. "I'd only just met him. None of us knew each other very long. None of us have the chance. Even those of us who are district partners – what do we really know about each other?"

"Not much," Thane admitted. "But there's one thing I do know. We can help each other now. Back the way I came from – there are two Careers. They're the ones I was trying to get away from, but with two of us…"

"Really?" Myrah asked, her voice a little skeptical, but with a twinge of hope, nonetheless. "You'd want _me _as an ally … this late in the Games."

Thane nodded. "For a little while, at least. There are two of them. We have a better chance with two of us." He held out his hand. "What do you say?"

Myrah took a step closer. Then another. "I … I don't know what to say." She brushed a few tears from her eyes. "I…"

He barely saw the knife in time.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

He saw the knife too soon.

Myrah struck as quickly as she could, but it wasn't quick enough. Thane saw the knife coming and backed away. Her knife sliced through his shirt but barely scraped his skin. But as he stepped back, he stepped away from his knife, which still lay on the ground, practically right beside her. He was unarmed.

Unless he had another weapon.

_Think_. What else might Evander have been carrying? One of the hammers, maybe – the ones he and Adelia had taken from the two girls when the Careers had attacked. Some food, maybe. Not much else…

Myrah took a step forward, keeping her knife positioned between her and Thane. He didn't reach for another weapon. He was waiting. Waiting for her to make the first move.

Well, the second move, really. She had already made the first move. She had rejected his offer. Myrah clenched her teeth. How stupid did he think she was? There was only one Career left – one of the girls from Four. So how could he be running from two of them?

And if he was lying about that, then what else was he lying about? For all she knew, he had killed Evander himself. Thane took another step back, never taking his eyes off her as he reached into his pockets and removed a hammer and some other sort of weapon. At least, it was probably meant as a weapon. But it looked more like a gardening tool.

Myrah gripped her knife tightly, reaching into her pocket for one of Aleron's, keeping her eyes fixed on Thane. "You killed him, didn't you," Myrah spat. Even if it wasn't true, the audience would eat it up – just like she had hoped they would eat up her sympathetic crying act. It had almost worked. But she hadn't quite been quick enough.

She wouldn't make the same mistake again.

"Him?" Thane smirked. "You mean Evander? He was practically begging me to kill him. I offered an alliance, he turned his back, and – _boom!_" He took a step to one side. "You're a little bit smarter, at least. But not smart enough."

"Smart enough to be able to count," Myrah shot back. "There's only one Career left – and that's assuming that last cannon wasn't hers."

Thane nodded. "Fair enough, I suppose. The other one's not a Career. One of the girls from Ten – she joined up with the Careers."

Myrah hesitated. That made some sense. Back in the hovercrafts at the beginning of the Games, the older girl from Ten had said something – asked one of the Careers if the offer still stood. An offer to join them? Could Thane be telling the truth? Would they have a better chance against the Careers together?

Myrah gripped her knives and took a step towards Thane. It was too late for that. Too late to start second-guessing herself. Clearly, Thane would have no qualms about killing her. And she didn't need another ally she couldn't trust. Not after Aleron had tried to kill her.

She would have to do this herself.

* * *

**Thane Hayer, 17  
****District Nine**

He would have to be careful.

Thane took a step back towards his district partner, keeping an eye on the knife that still lay on the ground. He'd been playing it tough, trying to sound as if he knew what he was doing. But the fact remained that he was unarmed, except for his hand rake and a hammer. She had two knives. Maybe more. If he could just get his knife back…

Stupid of him to drop it in the first place, Thane scolded himself. He had thought it would be easy to simply pick it up again. He hadn't counted on the younger girl charging so quickly. Now he was at a disadvantage.

But not for long. As soon as he got his weapon back…

Myrah charged, aiming low. Thane stepped out of the way, reaching down with his hammer, but Myrah was too quick. She struck again, missing once more, but keeping her position between him and his knife. Thane stepped back again. Then again.

Suddenly, he was stepping back into a pool of water. The ground was growing soft beneath his feet. Thane glanced over at Myrah. That was it. He stepped backwards again, this time falling back into the water.

Myrah took the bait. She charged. But, even as she did, Thane rolled out of the way and grabbed a leafy branch that lay on the ground nearby, thrusting it into her face. Myrah gave a yelp – more from surprise than pain – as Thane leapt to his feet, striking out with his hammer as Myrah lost her balance, slipping into the mud.

But even as he charged, Myrah rolled out of the way, striking at his legs with her knives. Thane gave a kick, and one of the knives flew out of her hand. But she held onto the other, plunging it deep into his thigh. Thane reached down, taking hold of the younger girl's wrist as she tried to squirm away. She lashed out, kicking and thrashing, and one of her boots found his groin. Thane doubled over, releasing her, and a sharp pain filled his stomach as she struck again.

Immediately, the younger girl took off running, back towards the knife that lay on the ground. But instead of returning to try to finish him off, she scooped it up and ran. "That's right, run!" Thane called after her, gasping. But, even as he said it, he knew she had done the smart thing. He was dead, anyway, if he didn't get help soon. Blood poured from both his stomach and his thigh.

Slowly, Thane struggled to his feet. He couldn't let it end like this. Not after he had come so far. It wasn't fair. Cursing, he stumbled blindly in the direction Myrah had gone. Maybe if he kept following, the Gamemakers would do something to stop her. Maybe they would send a mutt. Maybe they would block her path.

Maybe. But probably not, Thane realized bitterly. What had he ever done to earn a favor from them? He had killed, yes, but only one tribute. And only when it had been clear there was no other option. He hadn't even managed to kill his little district partner. A district partner who should have been an easy kill.

Of course they weren't going to help him now.

* * *

**Myrah Lanhart, 14  
****District Nine**

She could only hope the Gamemakers wouldn't decide to help him.

Myrah kept running, as fast as she could, away from Thane. She could have stayed. She could have tried to finish him off. But it was easier to simply run and hope he would eventually die form his injuries. And it was certainly safer.

But did that make it a better idea?

Would the audience be satisfied with her simply running? Myrah slowed a little. Should she have stayed? Should she have made sure to finish the job, even if it meant risking an injury? Surely the audience would understand that she had been lucky to survive. That if Thane had been armed, too, it wouldn't even have been much of a fight.

Besides, there were still three other tributes out there.

Myrah kept running. But there was still no cannon. He was still alive. Myrah slowed a little more, trying to catch her breath. Maybe she hadn't injured him as badly as she'd thought. Or maybe he was simply taking longer to die than she had imagined. Or maybe it only seemed like a long time because she was waiting for a cannon.

Maybe.

"Listen!"

The shout caught Myrah off-guard. It was coming from nearby. _Shit. _In the confusion, she hadn't even realized which way she was running. This was the direction Thane had come from. He had said something about Careers.

And now she had run right into them.

She could see two shapes – coming towards her fast. Myrah swallowed hard. There was only one thing to do. "Over here!" she called. "This way!" Immediately, she turned, running in the opposite direction. Back towards Thane. Maybe if the Careers – if that was even who they were – followed her back to him, they would see him as the bigger threat. Maybe they would waste their time finishing him off instead of going after her.

Maybe.

But first she had to get back to him. Would she have the time? Myrah stumbled forward in the dark. She had been able to outrun Thane, but he had been injured. These two didn't seem to be slowing. And she was already getting tired. There was no way she would make it back to Thane.

She would have to turn and fight.

She turned just in time to dodge one of the girl's knives, but, even as she did, the other girl dove for her legs. Myrah slashed across the girl's arm with her knife, but the other girl was stronger. She held on as the second girl pinned Myrah's hand to the ground. A crowbar came down, and Myrah barely squirmed out of the way in time. "Please!" she gasped. "I know where another tribute is! I can help you find him!" _The water's rising too fast! We can only get out together! _In that moment, she knew her pleas sounded just as pitiful as Aleron's had.

And her pleading was just as useless. The girl with the crowbar nodded to the other, who raised her knife. Myrah closed her eyes as the knife came down towards her throat.

It only hurt for a moment.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

It only took a moment.

Indira wiped the blood from her knife as the little girl's cannon sounded. "She's not even that old," Indira said softly. "Thirteen? Fourteen? How did she make it this far?"

Imalia shrugged. "People get lucky sometimes. It happens. She's had a kill or two herself, from the look of it. Look at her clothes."

Indira nodded. The girl's clothes were covered in blood – and not all of it her own. Some of it had dried – as much as could be expected in the rain, at least. Indira glanced up as Imalia laid a hand on her shoulder. "Come on. We have work to do."

Indira slowly got to her feet. "Work?"

"She said she knew where another tribute was. If she was leading us back this way, she probably meant to lead us to them, hope that was enough of a distraction for her to escape. Might have worked, if she was a little faster, or had a little bit more of a head start." She shook her head. "It was a good idea. It just wasn't good enough."

Indira nodded a little. The girl had to die eventually; maybe now was as good a time as any. It just seemed unfair. As unfair as it had been when Imalia had attacked the two tributes in the cabin.

That seemed like ages ago, Indira realized as she followed Imalia back the way the girl had come. She had been shocked then, terrified by what her ally had done. But she had just done the same thing. The two of them had killed a little girl who stood no chance against them.

And now she understood. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But it was necessary. It was what she had to do in order to go home.

Home. Home was only three tributes away. Only three more tributes who had to die before she was safe. And they were on their way to find one of them now.

They.

How much longer could 'they' last? How many tributes could be left before Imalia decided she could take on the last one alone? Who else was still alive? If they managed to find a tribute and kill them, would that be the end of their alliance? Maybe she should just leave now.

Indira clutched her knife tightly. Not yet. She could wait a little longer. But only a little. Only a little longer before she would have to either leave, or…

"There!"

Indira looked where Imalia was pointing, ahead of them on the ground. But, even as they approached the tribute who lay in front of them, a cannon sounded. "His?" Indira asked. "Or someone else?"

Imalia shook her head, taking a few steps closer. "Probably his. There's a lot of blood. But just to make sure…" She drew her knife across the tribute's throat. Nothing. No more cannons. "His, then," Imalia concluded. "One more."

One more.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

_One more._

Imalia stood up, wiping the blood off her knife. One more tribute. But they both knew that wasn't quite true. There were two more. Two more tributes had to die before the Games would end.

One of them would have to die.

But not yet. There was still one more tribute out there. They could wait a little longer. They could stay together a little longer.

Because there was no point in splitting up. Not really. The Gamemakers would start driving them together for the finale soon, anyway. What would be the point in separating? No, better to take on the last tribute – whoever it was – together.

Then they could worry about each other.

Imalia tucked her knife in her pocket. She had no idea, really, where to look for the final tribute. "Let's head back uphill," she decided, eyeing the water that was quickly rising around the boy's body. "Chances are, the Gamemakers will drive everyone to higher ground. We'll just find the other tribute, and then…"

She trailed off. Neither of them wanted to say it. If they managed to kill the final tribute together – and she had no reason to believe they wouldn't be able to – then they would be left to fight each other. To kill each other.

But not yet.

_One thing at a time. _They still had to find the last tribute. Imalia led the way back uphill, trudging through the water that was slowly rising. The rain seemed to be pouring harder – and colder. It wouldn't be long now.

Just a little longer.

Imalia clutched her crowbar tightly. She couldn't afford to start getting impatient now. Water was good, after all. The more water, the better. She could swim. She doubted Indira could. And whoever the other tribute was – well, they probably couldn't, either. So if the water kept rising…

She would definitely be at an advantage. The longer she could stall, the better. Yes. Yes, that was a good enough reason for not attacking Indira now. She could wait until she had an advantage.

And then she would do what had to be done.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

The Gamemakers would have to do something soon.

Domingo shook his head, pacing back and forth as the water slowly continued to rise. Two cannons had sounded since he'd killed the boy sleeping beneath the tree. There were three tributes left. Just three. Soon, there would be two. And then one.

Only one.

But it wouldn't be him if he just continued to sit here. Domingo gripped his knife, glancing around. Were the other two tributes nearby? Was this the finale already?

Was he ready if it was?

Maybe. Maybe he was as ready as he would ever be. A little more time wouldn't make him any stronger. Wouldn't give him skills that it would take years to learn. He had made it this far using … what? His wits? His will to survive? Would that be enough now that the Gamemakers would almost certainly no longer be helping him?

Maybe it was time to find out.

"All right, then," Domingo whispered, his voice a bit shakier than he'd intended. "All right," he repeated. "I'm ready. Where are you?" He turned around, glancing this way and that. There was no telling where an attack might come from. "Where are you?"

But the only response was a gentle whirring noise as the black column of smoke appeared one more time. Domingo swallowed hard, but he held his ground. The smoke wasn't here to kill him. Not now. Not so close to the end. No, it was here for something else.

It was here to fetch him.

Domingo stood perfectly still as the smoke came closer and closer, closing around him. Wrapping around him. He couldn't see, but maybe that was for the best. He could feel himself being lifted off the ground. Into the air.

He was flying.

Domingo clenched his knife tightly, but he didn't struggle. That had been the girl's mistake – the Career who had found him in the hatch. He had no way of knowing how high up he was, but he had no desire to be dropped to his death by a column of black smoke. That wasn't how he was going to go.

And if he had any say in it, he wasn't going to go at all.

Maybe what he had _would _be enough. Maybe whatever tributes were left would be surprised enough to see him arrive in a column of black smoke that they would be caught off-guard. Maybe it would give him an advantage.

But it would only be a brief advantage, if he had one at all. So he would have to be quick. Once the smoke released him, he knew, he couldn't afford to hesitate. No matter who he was facing. No matter who the last two tributes were, he couldn't hesitate to attack.

Domingo smiled a little. Maybe it was a good thing, after all, that his allies were dead. That his district partners were dead. Calantha, Gadget, Ivira. Fallon and Ciere. Audra, who had spared his life when he had fled from the bloodbath. She had hesitated then. She had let him go. She'd chosen sympathy over action.

He wouldn't make the same mistake.

* * *

**Tamika Ward  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Glad to see it wasn't a mistake."

Tamika barely glanced up as President Grisom nodded towards the screens. "Leaving Domingo alone on that side of the island? No, it wasn't a mistake. Not that I planned it, but Smokey would always be available to round up the tributes at the end, no matter how far apart they were."

"Smokey?" The president finally cracked a smile. He'd been wandering in and out of the control room since the start of the Games, but since the riots in Six, he'd been much more subdued. "You gave a column of smoke a name?"

Tamika shrugged. "It's a lot shorter than saying 'the column of smoke.' Besides, naming things makes them more manageable. Reminds us that they're really under our control."

"Just like you've been controlling the help you've given Domingo?"

"The audience likes a good show," Tamika reasoned. "Domingo was aware enough to take advantage of that. But now … well, now it's up to them. Once Smokey gets him where he's going, that's the end of that."

"So you don't plan to interfere in the finale, then."

Tamika cocked an eyebrow. "Not unless you think I should."

"I wouldn't presume to tell you what you should do with a finale. Two years ago, three boys were left sitting in a library for three days, and the audience was still on the edge of their seats. You know what you're doing, and I'm content to leave it at that."

No. No, that wasn't all. "And…" Tamika prompted.

Silas shook his head. "And quite frankly, Tamika, I wouldn't want the pressure of your job."

"The pressure of _my _job? You're the president."

"And I never particularly wanted that, either. It's mine, nonetheless, and I hope I've had some hand in bringing things back into balance, but … it's not quite the same, is it. The lives I deal with, the decisions I'm asked to make – are on such a large scale, it's easy to detach. Easy to see numbers instead of lives. But it's your _job_ to get the audience to see people instead of numbers, and then to care when those people die … but not enough that it calls the morality of the Games into question. It's a difficult tightrope, Tamika, and I'm glad it's not mine to walk."

Tamika smirked a little. "The feeling's mutual. The mess with the training center in Four, the riots in Six … I'll stick to the arena. At least there, if something goes horribly wrong, we can send in a giant smoke mutt to fix things. Real life isn't quite so simple."

Silas nodded. "And that's why it's probably best if we stick to our own arenas." He turned to leave. "Give us a good show, Tamika."

"Yes, Mr. President. I won't disappoint you."

Silas smiled, genuinely amused. "I know you won't."

* * *

**Crispin Zephyr  
****District Nine Mentor**

"I knew it."

Crispin shook his head as Brennan poured him another drink. "I _knew _it, damn it. Thane should have suggested an alliance when he had the chance. Together, they might have stood a chance against the girls. But, no, they had to pick _that _moment to start being suspicious."

Brennan shook his head. "You can't blame them for that. This late in the Games, everyone's suspicious."

Crispin took a long drink. "Sure. Everyone except the _Careers_. The ones who are supposed to know what they're doing, who are supposed to know what's at stake, who are supposed to know that whatever friendship they've managed to find in the Games can't possibly last. But _no._ _They're _the ones who've decided to stick together – right up to the end." He shook his head. "Why couldn't Myrah have allies like that?"

"She did," Brennan pointed out. "She chose to leave them, _because _she knew they would have stayed with her to the end. Or, at least, Evander would have." He shook his head. "But Aleron was right. Eventually, it's better to be with people you don't care about. People you don't trust. In the end … it hurts less. Take yourself, for example."

"Me?"

Brenann nodded. "Think about it. You didn't have any allies during your Games. Do you wish you had? Do you wish you'd come to trust and rely on a group of people over those weeks, only to have them snatched from you? Or are you glad you kept your distance?"

Crispin looked away. He was right. Of all the things he'd wished for in the arena, allies had never been one of them. Worrying about himself had been enough to keep him occupied. "So what's the answer? No one should have allies?"

Brennan smiled a little. "Maybe. Ideally. But it'll never happen. It's human nature to seek out friendship. Companionship. Even if it's not in our best interests. And even if it's only for a little while."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You had allies. Do you regret that?"

Brennan hesitated for a moment, but then shook his head. "No. No, I don't regret it. And not just because they kept me alive. Not just because Elaine died when it could have been any of us, instead. Not just because Grace sacrificed herself to save Blythe and me. I'm grateful I had them, if only for a little while. Even if everything ended … badly."

Crispin nodded. "It's a choice everyone has to make for themselves, I suppose. I just wish…" He trailed off, staring at the screen, where Domingo's smoke cloud was still hurtling towards the pair of waiting allies.

"I know. Myrah was close. It's never easy when they get that close and then…"

"Yeah." Crispin chuckled a little. "And I'm supposed to be the one who's been at this longer." He drained his glass.

Brennan smirked a little. "Another?"

Crispin nodded. "Why not?"

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

"Why not wait until after the Games?"

Harakuise shook his head as he helped Nicodemus out of his bed and back into his wheelchair. "I could ask the same thing," he pointed out. "Why not wait until after the Games to go back to the bar? It's almost over, anyway. Why put yourself through the stress of being around mentors who are still waiting to find out whether their tributes are going to make it out alive? Why not wait until it's all over?"

Nicodemus smiled a little. "Don't think it didn't cross my mind. But my place is there. My tributes are gone, but the other mentors – they need me. Kit—"

"Kit is doing fine," Harakuise assured him. "As well as can be expected, at least. Talking again, thanks to you. And doing his best to help Avery through the loss of her own tribute. So … why now?"

"I…" Nicodemus thought for a moment, but then decided. "I don't want to be alone, either. Not that I don't appreciate you coming to visit me, but—"

"But I'm not exactly the comforting sort," Harakuise finished. "Fair enough. The desire not to be alone – it's a powerful thing. And I suspect it's the answer to your question, as well."

Nicodemus cocked an eyebrow. "You think President Grisom chose to make his announcement about the riots now rather than after the Games because he was lonely?"

"Well, it sounds a bit silly when you put it like that," Harakuise admitted. "But think about it. Who do people blame when things in the districts go wrong? Who is the Capitol going to blame for the riots in Six or for the fire in Four? Who did the districts blame for the increase in tributes? Even if he's only doing what's necessary to keep things in order, all the blame gets placed on him."

"And making the announcement now – rather than after the Games – helps because…"

"Because now, even if something goes wrong, he's made a gesture. The two of you took the first step, calling out to both the districts and the Capitol to work for peace instead of revenge. No matter what happens in the next few hours, you've made progress."

"No matter what happens," Nicodemus repeated. "You think something's going to go wrong? In the Games?"

"Do I think so? No. But, after what happened last year, I wouldn't discount the possibility. The Gamemakers have done their best to drive Imalia and Indira apart, to no avail. The boar, the polar bear, the tributes they've come across … and they're both still alive. Don't pretend you've forgotten what happened two years ago."

Nicodemus nodded. It had been one of his tributes, after all, who had banded together with Kit and the boy from Three, surviving until the end and then hesitating when it came time to kill each other. Harakuise doubted Imalia and Indira would try anything similar, of course, especially after last year. Imalia was a Career, after all, and Indira … well, she was beginning to act like one. Maybe she was beginning to think like one.

And that would probably be enough.

But if it wasn't…

Harakuise shook his head as he wheeled Nicodemus back to the bar. It wasn't his concern, really. Wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't his mess to clean up if things went wrong. And they probably wouldn't. But he couldn't help a twinge of gratitude that Silas had, indeed, chosen to make his announcement before the finale. Whatever happened, for a moment, he could appear generous. Forgiving. He could take a step towards the peace they all so desperately needed.

But how long would it last?

* * *

**Avery Bentham  
****District Three Mentor**

How long could Carolina keep talking?

Avery glanced at the door once more, wondering if Carolina would notice if she simply slipped out. The older mentor was clearly a little drunk, going on and on about how wonderful it was that she and Kit seemed to be getting along. How much Kit had needed a friend. Avery nodded along, waiting for a good moment to leave. But every time she started to stand up, Carolina grabbed her arm, pulling her back into a hug.

It was almost as if she knew.

Avery shook the thought from her head. There was no way Carolina could know. No way anyone could know what she was planning to do.

Just as Carolina pulled her back down a third time, however, the door to the bar swung open, revealing Lander, along with an older man. It took Avery a moment to place him. She had never met him in person, and he looked so different from the pictures the Capitol always showed when his Games were replayed. He looked much older, much more tired, and a bit more drunk. Avery looked away, hoping that maybe he would be enough of a distraction for her to sneak away.

But, instead, Vester made his way to the table where she was sitting with Carolina. "Hello, Avery." He took a seat next to her. "Carolina, could you give us a moment?"

Carolina nodded and headed back to where Lander had taken a seat at the bar. "Quite a crowd," Vester remarked, glancing around the room. "I remember when there were only a few of us." He shook his head. "Hell, I remember when it was just me. It wasn't technically _just _me, of course. We had Capitol mentors back in those days. Did you know that?"

Avery nodded a little, wondering where Vester was going. She'd heard of Capitol mentors, of course. But it had been a long time since any district had needed one. Since the first Quarter Quell, every district had at least one Victor.

"But in some ways – in some very important ways – it _was _just me," Vester continued. "The first year I mentored, I was the only one who had been in the Games. The only one who had killed. But, slowly, as there became more and more of us, we realized that we weren't alone."

Avery looked away. He didn't understand. He couldn't. Percival and Miriam, they had told her the same thing. That she wasn't alone. That they would always be there for her. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to make up for what she'd done…

"I killed them," Avery insisted, her voice barely a whisper.

"The other tributes?"

Avery shook her head. He still didn't understand. "No. Not them. My _family_. What the Peacekeepers did to them … It was _my _fault. They died because _I_ was afraid to. If I had just said no, if I had let the others kill me instead of joining them – my family would be alive. It's my fault they're dead."

"Maybe."

Avery looked up, shocked. Every time she had said the same to Percival and Miriam, they insisted it wasn't her fault. "What?"

Vester shrugged. "Maybe it is. And maybe it's time someone said so instead of coddling you, because anyone with half a brain knows it's true. They just don't want to admit it, because they're afraid admitting it will break you." He leaned forward a little. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because it didn't break me. You've seen the tapes of the First Games. You know what I did."

Of course she did. Everyone did. "And the worst thing is, I meant to," Vester continued. "You got your family killed, but you didn't mean to. You never wanted it to happen. I _wanted _to kill every tribute I killed in the arena. I wanted them to suffer. I could have given them quick deaths, but, instead, I drew out every breath, every drop of blood. _I _did that. And I have to live with it. And so do you."

"It's not the same."

"Of course not. Everyone's pain is different. Everyone has different ghosts. You're different, Avery. But that doesn't mean you're alone."

"It would just be easier if…"

"Of course it would. It would be easier – for a moment. For you. But then it would be over. It would be done. Death doesn't solve anything. It just ends everything. And maybe it seems like that would be better, but it won't always be that way."

Avery shook her head. "How long, then? How long before I can … before I can look at myself in the mirror and not see the blood? How long before I can close my eyes and not hear them screaming? How long before they're gone?"

Vester shook his head. "Never. They're never gone, Avery. But they get quieter. They fade. Slowly. There will be good days and … well, not-so-good days. The Games will always be the worst. They'll always bring it back. But that's why this place exists, Avery – so none of us have to face those memories alone when they're the strongest. _None _of us." He leaned back in his chair. "Think about that, Avery, before you do what you're planning."

_What you're planning. _"How do you—"

"You're not the first Victor to think it would be easier just to put an end to it. Some people try to drown out their memories with alcohol or drugs. Some of us are a bit more drastic." He shook his head. "You have people watching out for you, Avery. As did I. Give them a chance. Give yourself a chance." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Give yourself tonight. You can do that much. Just not tonight."

Avery shook her head. "And then?"

Vester smiled a little. "And then you tell yourself the same thing tomorrow night. And the night after. And the next." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "So what do you say? Not tonight?"

Avery swallowed hard. _Not tonight. _One night. One more night. Maybe she could do that. "Not tonight," she finally agreed.

Vester nodded. "Me, too."

* * *

"_If we can't live together, we're gonna die alone."_


	50. Inevitable

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And this is it. The finale. Which probably means you jumped right to the story instead of reading this little note, so I won't waste your time. :)

Results of the Victor poll are up on the blog. And now ... on with the show.

* * *

**Finale  
****Inevitable**

* * *

**Nicodemus Ford  
****District Six Mentor**

He and Harakuise had almost made it back to the bar when he saw them.

Nicodemus slowed his wheelchair to a stop just outside the door to the bar as the others approached. There were five of them – Eldred, a woman about the same age, and three children. Two teenagers – a boy and a girl – and a girl maybe five or six years younger. All three had their mother's darker skin and hair, but there was something in the younger girl's hard, curious eyes that left him no doubt. "This is your family."

Eldred nodded. "We usually watch the Games together, and I thought, with the finale so close … but I wasn't really sure whether it would be all right to bring them with me—"

"Of course it's all right," Harakuise nodded, kneeling down to the youngest girl's level. "And what's your name, young lady?"

The girl's wide brown eyes stared back in amazement. "Rylee. I'm Rylee."

"Pleased to meet you, Rylee. I'm Harakuise." The older Victor held out his hand, which Rylee shook eagerly. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

Rylee nodded enthusiastically. "This is Milton and Ellery." She took a step closer. "And you're Nicodemus. You're the one who was on the cameras. You helped the president."

Nicodemus' stomach churned. Was that how he was going to be known now? As the Victor who had helped the president settle the districts down? The one who had helped foil a rebellion?

The collaborator?

Fortunately, Eldred stepped in, laying a hand gently on his daughter's shoulder. "He helped us all, Rylee – both the Capitol and the districts. Peace is better for us all. Most of the people in the districts realize that, but, every so often, they need a reminder – just like you and Milton and Ellery sometimes need a reminder to play nicely and get along."

Rylee nodded attentively, but her hands were fiddling impatiently with her dress. "Can we go in now? I want to meet the others."

Eldred turned to Harakuise and Nicodemus. "If you think it would be all right…"

Nicodemus nodded warmly. "It'll be perfectly fine. Come on, Rylee."

Harakuise held the door open as the others entered. Most of the Victors were watching the screens intently and barely glanced over, but Brennan hurried over and clapped Eldred on the back. "Well, it's about time! I was starting to wonder if I was your permanent replacement!"

Eldred smiled a little. "Didn't take you folks long to get used to me, I guess."

Brennan shrugged. "Actually, I'm just tired of Tobiah fussing over the way I'm mixing his drinks." He turned to Nicodemus. "We're glad you're all right. What happened when—"

Nicodemus shook his head. "Bit of indigestion." The president had made his announcement about the riots in Six, of course, but had said nothing about Phoebe's attempt to kill him. And that was the way it was going to stay.

Eldred's wife looked concerned for a moment before Brennan stepped in, shrugging. "Capitol food will do that when you're not used to it – happens to all of us sometimes. Nothing to worry about." He held out his left hand. "Brennan Aldaine."

"Millicent Brand." She hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. "I remember your Games. District Twelve was my favorite that year. When you killed Blythe – ooh, that gave me shivers." She turned to Harakuise. "And you. I was just a little girl when you won, but you were always one of my favorites. I've always said it was so kind of you to take care of your district partner's little brother after she died. I suspected something would come of it, of course, and what do you know…"

"She certainly doesn't waste time," Nicodemus remarked as Eldred snuck behind the bar once more, followed by Ellery, who almost immediately started helping her father with the drinks.

Eldred blushed a little. "She means well. It's just that she's never met a Victor before. We see you on the screens every year, and the lights and the spectacle always make you seem a bit … larger than life. It's easy to forget that you're real people."

"Didn't seem to surprise you," Nicodemus pointed out.

Eldred nodded. "That's what I get for working with politicians for so many years. It's the same sort of thing. The president, the cabinet members, the Gamemakers – they all want to appear all-knowing, all-powerful. But when you're sitting in a room with them, listening to them squabble and argue and disagree – well, you get quite a different perspective on how much they know and what they can do."

_What they can do_. Nicodemus wasn't sure which was more frightening: thinking of the president and those in the Capitol as all-powerful, or realizing that behind every cold-hearted decision, every execution, every attempt to squash the districts back into submission, was a real-life person. A person not so different, in the end, from anyone else.

A person not so different from himself.

* * *

**Eldred Brand  
****Bartender**

They weren't so different, in the end.

Eldred watched with a smile as Milton and Rylee began to mingle with the Victors. Milton quickly settled down near Harriet and Balthasar, both of whom were drinking casually, not at all preoccupied with what remained of the Games. Both of their tributes were gone, and neither had been allied with anyone who was left.

Most of the others had formed into one cluster or another. District Ten's three Victors – Glenn, Tess, and Presley – sat together, along with Tamsin and Elijah. Eldred nodded. That made sense. Imalia had been responsible for Shale's death, and Domingo had killed Philus – albeit quite mercifully. So Indira was the natural tribute to side with.

District Four's victors – Mags, Naomi, Kalypso, and Bierce – were also clustered together near the screens in a silent show of support for Imalia. Camden, Jade, and Jasper sat nearby, supporting the last of this Games' Careers. And, last, a cluster of Victors had formed around Hazel and Casper, including Lander, Carolina, and Kit. The rest of the Victors were scattered around the room – some watching the screens, some not. Avery and Vester sat together in a corner, the youngest Victor nestled snugly against the oldest, finally sleeping soundly.

Rylee, who had been flitting from table to table, finally settled down next to Presley. Eldred took a step towards their table, ready to step in if it turned out his daughter was bothering the Victors, but, just as he was about to interrupt, Presley scooped Rylee up and placed the little girl on her lap. Eldred nodded, satisfied, and returned to the bar counter, where Millicent was still chatting with Brennan.

Elrded smiled and made a mental note to treat Brennan to a drink later. He had been nothing but courteous, despite Millicent's careless remarks about his district partner. Meanwhile, Nicodemus sat at a nearby table, watching the pair with a small smile. "I didn't get a chance to thank you," Nicodemus said quietly as Eldred brought him a drink.

Elrded cocked an eyebrow. "For what?"

"When I asked the president to let me speak to District Six, he hesitated. I saw him looking to you. Wanting your opinion. You knew you could trust me not to do anything…"

"Rash?" Eldred offered.

Nicodemus nodded. "It wouldn't exactly be the first time." He ran his crooked fingers along his legs. "So what made this time different?"

Eldred shrugged. "Nothing. Both times, you acted to stop bloodshed. Whether that blood belongs to district citizens or Capitolites … I don't think that matters so much to you."

"And what about you?"

Eldred hesitated. "I take no pleasure in bloodshed – on either side." He nodded towards his younger children, who were eagerly lapping up the Games like most people would expect Capitolite children to. "Sometimes it's necessary, for the greater good, but I wouldn't consider it something to be celebrated. The Games didn't always have this much spectacle, you know. When I was younger, it was clearer that they were a punishment. A necessary and somewhat entertaining one, perhaps, but a punishment, nonetheless, for the rebellion. Somewhere along the line, we lost that – and we paid the price."

"The price."

"People forgot what would happen without the Games. They're a reminder – and a necessary one. What I told Rylee was true; every so often, people need to be reminded to—"

"To play nicely?" Nicodemus' smile never left his face, but he couldn't hide the bitterness in his eyes. It was hard to blame him. Reminding the districts to play the Games as they should wasn't quite the same as reminding his children to share their toys. But the alternative was worse. Far worse. And, of all people, Nicodemus understood that.

He just hoped the tributes understood it, too.

* * *

**Kalypso Wayland  
****District Four Mentor**

She just hoped Imalia wouldn't do anything stupid.

Kalypso drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch. Beside her, Bierce, Naomi, and Mags were watching the screen just as intently. Silently hoping that Imalia understood what had to happen. That the time for alliances and even friendships was drawing to a close.

Kalypso took another drink. She hadn't had this problem. She had lost her alliance early on, turning on her district partner and abandoning the others to the sinking ship whose rigging had begun to entrap them. She had gone the rest of her Games without allies and had never looked back.

Bierce, on the other hand, was nodding along as Imalia and Indira headed for higher ground together. He and his allies had stayed together until the end, Bierce's charisma holding the Career pack together while the fiery arena threatened to separate them. Only once the other tributes were dead had they finally turned on each other.

"She knows what she's doing," Bierce nodded, laying a hand on Kalypso's. "If they fought each other now, chances are even the winner would come out of the fight injured – and you know how that sometimes goes."

He had a point. Too often, Careers who turned on each other before the end wound up badly injured, and became prey for tributes they could easily have bested in a fair fight. But Indira wasn't a Career. Surely Imalia would be able to defeat her without too much of a fight. Of course, the same would be true after Domingo was gone. She could only hope that Imalia and Indira were staying together for strategic reasons, not emotional ones.

It had only been two years ago, after all, that Kit and his allies had survived to the end of the Games together, refusing to turn on each other for three days. Surely Imalia would know better than to do something similar. She was a Career. She had been waiting her whole life for this. Surely she wasn't going to throw it away for a friend she had known for a few days.

She would just have to hope Imalia knew what she was doing.

* * *

**Casper Hensley  
****District Seven Mentor**

He would just have to hope Domingo knew what he was doing.

Casper gave Hazel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as the two of them watched the screen. There was nothing more they could do for Domingo. Nothing anyone could do. And, as soon as the column of smoke delivered him to wherever the Gamemakers wanted him, they would be done helping him, as well.

He just hoped Domingo knew that.

Sometimes tributes forgot, after all. Occasionally, there were tributes who learned to use the mutts or the other elements of the arena to their advantage. But, inevitably, that didn't last. Most of the time, the Gamemakers – and therefore the mutts – abandoned a tribute during the finale, not wanting to show favor to one side or another.

Most of the time.

There were exceptions, of course. And one of them was sitting next to him. Hazel had won her own Games only after the Gamemakers had sent mutts to attack her final opponent, the son of a rebel from District One. But that had been almost forty years ago. Most of the time, if there was a particular tribute or two the Gamemakers wanted to target, they made sure to do so before the finale.

But was this one of those times? Casper wasn't quite sure. There was no particular reason for the Gamemakers to target Indira and Imalia, unless…

Casper shook his head. No. The Gamemakers had shown favor to the regular tributes at the expense of the replacements during training, yes, but, once the Games started, there had been no real differences in their actions towards the groups of tributes, aside from keeping them separated. There were two replacement tributes left, and one non-replacement. Of the final eight, there had been five replacement tributes, and one – Philus – who had been grouped with the replacement tributes at the start of the Games. If the Gamemakers were trying to show favor to the non-replacement tributes, they weren't doing a very good job.

And the only other option was that maybe – just maybe – the Gamemakers would consider Imalia and Indira's friendship a threat. If they were worried that the two might refuse to kill each other in the end, then maybe they would continue to favor Domingo.

But probably not. If the Gamemakers had wanted the two girls dead, they could have sent another polar bear. Or the column of smoke. Or simply made the water rise faster and drowned them both. Or had a tree fall on them. Or any number of other things. If the Gamemakers – or the president – had wanted them dead, they would be.

But, by the same token, they hadn't targeted Domingo, either. Right now, he had as good a chance as either of the girls. And even if the column of smoke dropped him in the middle of the pair, he would still have the element of surprise – at least for a little while.

He would just have to hope that would be enough.

* * *

**Presley Winters  
****District Ten Mentor**

She would just have to hope Indira had learned enough.

Presley scooted a little closer to Glenn and Tess on the couch, still holding Eldred's daughter Rylee on her lap. The little girl had wandered over a few minutes ago, maybe hoping for a front-row seat, or a first-hand look at how the Victors reacted to the finale.

Rylee wriggled a little, trying to get a better look. But the truth was that there wasn't much to see right now. Imalia and Indira were headed for the highest ground they could find. Domingo was still engulfed by the column of smoke. As for the rest of the island, it was quickly becoming immersed in the water. Parts seemed to be flooding from the rain, while other parts were slowly breaking off and sinking into the surrounding ocean.

Whatever the Gamemakers were planning, it wouldn't be long now.

Presley shook her head. As far as Indira's life was concerned, the quicker the finale came to a close, the better. Every minute the island continued to flood and sink was one more minute that Imalia would be able to use to her advantage. Tributes from District Four – and, ever since her own Games, the other Career districts, as well – were the only ones who could be counted on to know how to swim.

Presley smiled a little. No one had known, six years ago, that _she _had been able to swim. When the boy from Four had crashed their ark into some jagged rocks and sunk it, he had assumed she and the boy from Two would die quickly, leaving him the Victor. And, had the Games lasted much longer, that was probably exactly what would have happened. Swimming in a pond in District Ten, after all, was quite different from swimming in a storm in the open ocean. She had known she had to act quickly.

She just hoped Indira knew that, too.

Of course, there were good reasons for not attacking Imalia immediately. Indira had no way of knowing exactly who was left out of the remaining tributes. And even if she happened to remember that Domingo was one of the ones whose face she hadn't seen – and that, aside from Myrah and Thane, both of whom the girls knew were dead, the only other option was Philus – it still wouldn't be a good idea to underestimate him.

Underestimating her, after all, had cost both of her final opponents dearly, and she had only been a year older than Domingo. Fourteen-year-olds – and even a thirteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old – had won, usually at least partly due to being underestimated by their competition. From the look of things, Indira didn't want to make the same mistake.

At least, Presley hoped that was the reason. Hoped that Indira was delaying her attack not because she was hesitant to take on Imalia, but because she didn't want to end up facing Domingo alone and injured, which would almost certainly happen even if she managed to best Imalia. As long as that was the reason…

But what if it wasn't?

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

What if the Gamemakers didn't want them to find the last tribute?

Indira clutched her knife tightly as she and Imalia continued to head uphill. The water was closing quickly behind them. It wouldn't be long now before they either found the other tribute, or…

Or what? Whoever the other tribute was, he or she couldn't hide forever. Eventually, the Gamemakers would drive them together. But what if they were waiting? What if they wanted to force the two of them to turn on each other first?

Was it time to give them what they wanted?

Indira stumbled along after Imalia in the growing darkness. Even the lights from their helmets seemed to be dimming. In the dark, would she be able to see an attack if another tribute found them? Would she even know if Imalia was getting ready to turn on her?

Indira clenched her teeth. Maybe she should strike first. But, no matter how many times the thought crossed her mind, she couldn't quite bring herself to. Whether she was afraid of the fight that would ensue the moment she struck – and what the outcome of that fight might be – or whether she simply didn't want to be the first to attack a friend, she wasn't sure.

And that scared her more than either option.

Until now, she had known exactly what she had to do – and why. She hadn't liked it, but she had done it. She had stood guard at the door of the cabin while Imalia killed the tributes from Eleven. She had helped Imalia attack a boar, a polar bear, and even other tributes without much hesitation. Because they had to. Because there was no other choice.

And there was no other choice now. Not really. Either she could attack Imalia now, or she could wait and hope someone else would. But whoever was left, did they really stand a chance against the two of them? If she waited, was there really any chance that it _wouldn't _come down to her and Imalia, just the same?

Suddenly, Imalia stopped. "What is it?" Indira called, only a few steps behind. But, in the dark, she couldn't see why Imalia had stopped – not until she joined her ally. They had reached the top of the hill.

There was nowhere else to go.

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

There was nothing else to do.

Domingo took a deep breath. Then another. Strange, how the air inside a column of smoke could be so clear. So fresh. Even the cold damp that had filled the air ever since they'd arrived in the arena was gone. For a moment, he was safe and warm. For one last moment.

But it wouldn't last. Nothing did. His alliance hadn't lasted. The time he had spent safely in the hatch hadn't lasted. And whatever time he had left in the arena wouldn't last, either.

The only question was whether he would have any time after that, or whether he would be dead.

But there was nothing to be done about that – one way or another. Not yet. Not until the column of smoke let him go. For now, all he could do was wait.

It seemed like hours that he flew, but it was probably only minutes. Finally, Domingo worked up the courage to open his eyes, but it did no good. The smoke had surrounded him in complete darkness. He could only hope that it would look the same from the outside. That anyone who saw him coming would see only a menacing column of black smoke, rather than the boy inside.

No. Not a boy. Not anymore. The boy he had been when he'd entered the arena – the boy who had dreamed of winning so that he could be free of school and chores and his parents' nagging – that boy was gone. That boy was already dead. He was a tribute now. And soon he could be a Victor.

Or he could be dead.

Those were the only two options now. For days, he had been hiding. Waiting. Delaying the inevitable with traps and tricks and the help of the Gamemakers. But none of that would do him any good now. He couldn't wait anymore. He couldn't expect any more help – not once the smoke set him down somewhere. He would be on his own.

Domingo closed his eyes again. He was already on his own. He had been on his own since the beginning of the Games. And maybe that was good. Maybe that was for the best. He had no one to worry about but himself.

No life to think about but his own.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

She had to think about her own life now.

Imalia took a step away from Indira as the water continued to rise around them, threatening to slosh over even the small piece of land they stood on. One flash of lightning lit the forest. Then another. Indira was keeping her distance, as well. Neither one of them wanted to make the first move.

But, eventually, someone would have to. This stand-off that they had somehow fallen into – it couldn't last forever. They both knew it. But neither wanted to be the one to break it. Not yet.

Not yet.

_Crack_. Lightning. But not just an ordinary flash of lightning. Only a dozen yards away, a tree burst into flame, glowing an odd shade of blue in the pouring rain. Imalia nodded. Any ordinary fire would burn out quickly in the downpour. But a finale in the pitch black wasn't what the audience wanted. They wanted to see what was happening.

They wanted to see the blood.

As another tree caught fire – this one glowing a sickly shade of green – Imalia could hear a strange, mechanical noise. Almost like a ticking. It took her a moment to realize where it was coming from. In the distance, but hurtling closer, was a cloud. A cloud of black smoke amid the rain and the fire.

_Why not?_

Imalia smirked as Indira took a step closer. A few days ago, it might all have been a bit too much. Disappearing cabins. Bears in the jungle. Fire burning green and blue in the rain. A cloud of black smoke that made a ticking noise. Now it was just one more oddity. One more distraction from the real question:

Where was the last tribute?

Imalia took a step closer to Indira as the cloud of smoke drew closer and closer. How, exactly, they were supposed to fight smoke, she wasn't sure. But whatever was hidden inside that column, they would have a better chance against it together. Imalia gripped her crowbar firmly as Indira slid a hand into hers. One last fight. One last battle together before the end.

"Ready?" Indira asked, her face glowing in the firelight.

Imalia took a deep breath. "Ready."

* * *

**Domingo Ibanez, 14  
****District Seven**

He had to be ready.

Domingo could feel the column of smoke slowing down. Flashes of light were beginning to make their way in from outside the cloud. Flashes of blue and green. Domingo swallowed hard, gripping his knife, trying to look as confident as he could.

This was it.

There was no hiding now. No running. He had to be ready for a fight. The column of smoke dropped lower. Lower. Finally, his feet touched the ground. Domingo tensed, ready to spring the moment he could see what was going on. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the cloud vanished.

He immediately wished it hadn't.

Two tributes – both older, stronger girls – stood in front of him. Domingo set his jaw, taking in their surprised looks. Clearly, whatever they'd been expecting, it hadn't been him. "Not exactly what you thought, huh?" he asked, forcing what he hoped was a cocky smirk onto his face.

"Not exactly," one of the girls admitted, taking a step to the right as the other took a step to the left. Trying to surround him. He would have to make his move soon, or lose any sort of advantage. But which one was the safer target?

No. No, there was no safer target. There was no good choice. Both were well-armed. Both were wearing helmets. One of them had a crowbar, as well as a knife. The other held a knife in each hand – and might well have more in addition to that. If only he could get them to fight each other…

_Bluff_.

Domingo took a step uphill, towards both of them. "The mighty Careers. You really think it's going to take two of you to kill me? No, whoever gets to me first will finish me off easily. _But_—" he grinned. "What then? Whoever comes after me leaves herself open to an attack while she finishes me off. So, tell you what. Why don't you two fight it out, and I'll just wait over here. Winner gets to take me on. What do you say?"

The one with the crowbar shook her head. "A generous offer, but I'm afraid we'll have to decline. You see, if someone's going to kill me, I'd rather it be her than you."

The other girl nodded. "And if someone's going to kill _me_, I'd rather it be her."

_Shit._

The girls took a step closer. Then another. Perfectly in time. Exactly the same distance away. The one with the crowbar would have a longer reach. But did that mean he should attack the other girl? Or would they be expecting that?

_Stop thinking_.

Chances were, they weren't expecting him to attack at all. They were probably expecting him to stand there and try to defend himself against both of them at once – the same thing he had done when the girl from Two had attacked him. But he had barely won a fight against one Career – and that had been with the Gamemakers' help. He didn't stand a chance against two in a fair fight.

_So don't fight fair._

Domingo ran for the nearest tree.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

The boy was halfway up the tree already.

Imalia sprinted towards the tree, but it was already too late. "Damn it," she muttered. District Seven. Of course he would be able to shimmy his way up a tree even when there hadn't seemed to be any branches low enough. But the lack of branches wasn't even why she had discounted the possibility.

She had assumed no one would want to climb a tree that was on fire.

But the boy simply darted higher and higher, choosing branches that hadn't yet been burnt to a crisp. It wasn't a bad plan. He'd managed to delay the fight a little longer.

But not long enough. Imalia swung her crowbar as hard as she could against the trunk of the tree. Sparks flew out as the metal collided with the burning wood. She swung again, unleashing another array of sparks. One landed on her hand, the rest falling harmlessly to the ground around her, any lingering flames quickly doused by the pouring rain. The tree creaked and groaned as the boy climbed higher. Imalia swung again.

This time, the trunk exploded.

She had expected the tree to come toppling to the ground, or perhaps collapse under its own weight. It didn't. Splinters of wood and larger chunks of burning tree trunk flew every which way as the force of the explosion knocked her off her feet. Imalia cried out in pain as something landed on her arm. A burning slab of wood missed her face by a few inches.

And still there were no cannons.

Where was Indira? Where was the boy? Imalia's mind raced as she struggled to free her right arm from the piece of tree trunk that had fallen on it. Her crowbar was hopelessly trapped, but, at last, she managed to slide her arm free. And still there was no attack. No sign of either of the others.

Where were they?

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

Where was she?

Indira swallowed back a cough as she dug through the branches and bits of tree trunk. Where was Imalia? And where was the boy from Seven? There hadn't been any cannons, so they were still alive. They were _both _still alive.

But where were they?

Just as she knelt down to dig through the rubble a bit more carefully, though, something grabbed her from behind. No, not something. Some_one. _An arm, reaching up through the branches behind her. Indira barely had time to register the fact that the hand was holding a knife before it sank deep into her leg.

She couldn't hold back a scream as she gave the arm a kick. Then another. The knife flew out of the boy's hand – for the boy, in fact, it was, lying on his back in a pile of rubble. Injured – badly, from the look of it – but still trying to fight.

But not trying hard enough.

In an instant, she was on top of him, knife in hand. A knife that came down quickly, burying itself in the boy's chest. Once. Twice. The third time, the cannon sounded. He was dead.

But it wasn't over yet.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

It wasn't over yet.

Imalia took a step back, surveying the branches, the pieces of wood. Her arm ached where the piece of tree trunk had fallen on it. Gingerly, she tested it, trying to grip a knife. Pain shot through her arm – sharp and deep. It was almost certainly broken.

But that didn't mean it was over.

One of her opponents was gone. But which one? Imalia turned around once, then again, not wanting to be caught off-guard. Then, in another flash of lightning, she could see her. Indira. She was still alive.

So it was going to come down to the two of them, after all.

Another flash of light, and Imalia knew her ally had seen her, as well. No. No, not her ally. Not anymore. Her final opponent. The only thing standing between her and home.

Her friend.

Tears welled in Imalia's eyes. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't the cannon have been hers? She would have had no qualms about killing the boy. She barely remembered what district he had come from, let alone his name. But Indira…

_Stop it._

"Did you mean what you said earlier?"

The question caught Imalia off-guard. She had expected Indira to attack while she still had some sort of advantage. What had she said earlier that could possibly matter now? "Did I mean what?"

Indira took a tentative step closer, limping, gripping her blood-covered knife tightly. "You told him that, if someone was going to kill you, you'd rather it was me than him."

Imalia nodded. "Of course I meant it. Did you?"

"Yes." Indira's voice was breaking. "But I don't want to die at all."

_Neither do I. _"Nobody does." She took a deep breath. "But one of us has to." She shook her head.

"And it's not going to be me."

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

"And it's not going to be me."

The words left their mouths at the same time. Indira blinked the tears out of her eyes as she stifled a laugh. Even now, they couldn't help but agree. "Okay, then," she whispered. "Let's see who's right."

In the rain, it was impossible for her to tell if Imalia had charged first. But there was no choice left in her mind. This fight had to happen. Neither of them could afford to hesitate. Neither of them could afford to look weak. Not when they were so close.

Not when _she _was so close.

There was no more _they_. Indira ducked beneath Imalia's first stroke, which seemed strangely clumsy. Some corner of her mind realized that Imalia's knife was in her left hand. Odd. Had she been injured when the tree had fallen? And her crowbar was gone. Had she lost that, as well?

There was no time to wonder about that, though, because Imalia's next blow was much more confident. Indira ducked, then backed away, then ducked again. "Come on!" Imalia growled. "Fight!"

Indira swallowed hard. _Fight_. She swung, but Imalia dodged easily. And again. Her leg aching, Indira took another step back. Then another. Maybe she didn't have to attack. Maybe she simply had to keep defending herself. Eventually, Imalia would make a mistake.

She just had to wait.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

She couldn't afford to wait.

Imalia clenched her teeth as she swung again. She had been assuming that, when it came down to it, time would be on her side because of the rising water. That she could afford to wait as long as she needed to, and she would have an advantage.

But she was already tiring. She could feel the air burning her lungs, the smoke from the burning trees competing with the dampness in the air. Her right hand was barely clutching one of her knives; she was relying on the other to attack. And attacking was tiring her more than the air or her injuries.

_So stop attacking_.

But she couldn't simply stop the fight. The Gamemakers would never allow that. This fight had to happen. And it had to happen _now_, or she would be at even more of a disadvantage. So there was only one other option.

She had to get _Indira _to start attacking.

_Good luck. _Indira was swinging a little, but her blows were hesitant. She certainly wasn't aiming to kill. She was biding her time. She knew that Imalia was tiring. Imalia clenched her teeth. There had to be something. Something that would get her ally – no, her _opponent _– to crack.

"I expected more from you." The words were out of Imalia's mouth before she realized it. "I honestly thought you would put up more of a fight. This is going to be easy."

Indira shook her head. "Then finish it, already. What are you waiting for?"

_You'll have to do better than that. _Imalia gasped for air as she swung again, searching for the right words. "This is going to be even easier than getting Shale killed."

The look on Indira's face said it all.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

"What do you mean?"

Indira took a step back, startled. It was some sort of an act. It had to be. Imalia had been just as surprised as she had when Shale and Jarlan's faces had appeared in the sky. She had been just as devastated by the loss of their allies – maybe even more so.

Unless _that _had been the act.

Imalia took a step closer, knife in hand. "I arranged the whole thing. I knew the two of them were only going to slow us down. So I enlisted Delvin to … take care of them."

"You're lying."

"Why would I lie?"

"You're trying to give me a reason to attack you."

"You _do_ have a reason to attack me. Wake up, Indira! I'm not your friend. I'm not even your ally anymore. Hell, how do you know I ever was? It was just luck that you ended up with me that day rather than with Jarlan. If you had offered to go with him and Shale had stayed with me, you would be dead now, and _he _would be the one fighting me." She shook her head. "And I bet he'd put up a better fight."

"I don't believe you." But she didn't sound quite as confident as she'd hoped.

"Yes, you do." Imalia took a step closer, while Indira took another step back. "You just don't know it yet. Think it through. How else would Delvin have survived when the other two died? Certainly not thanks to any physical skill. I'm not sure how, but he managed to do what I asked. And I bet the girl from Seven saw him do it."

"The girl from Seven?"

"You remember. The night at the greenhouse. Just before we killed her, she called me a traitor." Imalia shook her head. "And you didn't even think twice about why."

"I thought—"

"You were wrong."

Maybe she was. Maybe she had been wrong all along. Indira gripped her knife. Maybe she was giving Imalia exactly what she wanted. She was certainly giving the audience exactly what _they _wanted. But maybe it didn't matter anymore.

Because it was what she wanted, too.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

This was exactly what she had wanted.

Imalia caught Indira's first blow on her own knife, and then the second. No, not what she _wanted_. But what needed to happen. Maybe what had always needed to happen. Maybe it had been inevitable from the start.

Of course it had been inevitable. What had she thought would happen? That the Gamemakers would be inspired by their friendship and decide to let them both live? That Indira would simply fall over and die so that she could go home? No, Indira wanted to live just as much as she did.

But wanting it wasn't enough.

Imalia ducked beneath Indira's next blow as the older girl let out a cry of rage and grief. No more words. They were past the time for words. There was nothing left to say. Nothing left to hear.

Nothing but the rain. The sound of the rain pouring, the crackling of the fire in the trees as the two traded blow after blow. She could feel the water beginning to soak through her boots. Already up past her ankles.

She just needed to hold out a little longer.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She just needed to keep going a little longer.

Indira gasped for breath as the blows continued. First Imalia struck, and then she struck back. Blow after blow. Finally, her knife found Imalia's arm, but she could tell the wound wasn't deep. Imalia barely let out a cry of pain as she took a step backwards, then lunged forwards once more with a blow of her own.

Indira took a step backwards. Then another. Her leg brushed against something. A branch, still burning blue with fire from the trees. If she could reach it…

As quickly as she could, she ducked. Imalia's knife grazed her side before she managed to stand back up, but it was worth it. Without hesitation, she thrust the burning branch at Imalia's face. Imalia staggered backwards, but not quickly enough. A howl of pain let Indira know her weapon had found its mark.

Imalia staggered backwards blindly, and Indira lunged. Imalia's own knife was a second too late to block Indira's blow, but the blow itself was short of its mark, and the knife buried itself in Imalia's left shoulder. Before Indira could pull it back out again, Imalia's own knife slashed across her arm, cutting deep into her flesh. Crying out in pain, Indira released the knife and stumbled backwards as Imalia drew Indira's knife out of her own shoulder. Her other hand still held the piece of wood, but the flames had gone out in the pouring rain.

She needed another weapon.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

There had to be something else she could use as a weapon.

Imalia staggered forwards, a knife in each hand. But neither was likely to do any good now. Blood poured from both her shoulder and Indira's arm. Maybe now it was just a matter of who could survive the blood loss longer.

But that wasn't what the audience wanted to see.

Imalia gritted her teeth. She hadn't talked Indira into attacking her just so they could turn this into a contest of who could bleed the slowest. No. No, that was a fight she might lose. And if she was going to lose, then she was going to go out fighting.

Because she _had _meant it. If she was going to die, this was the way to go. If Indira won, fair and square, after Imalia had successfully goaded her into a fight … well, maybe that wasn't so bad. And at least Indira wouldn't feel guilty about it, once she found out the truth, that she _had _gotten Shale and Jarlan killed.

Shale and Jarlan and so many others. What was one more? What was one more dead ally?

Maybe it was time to just end it.

Imalia staggered forward, pain flooding her arm, her shoulder, her face where the burning branch had struck her. Indira took a step closer, anticipating her move. Imalia raised her knife as high as she could.

And then dove for Indira's legs.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

She couldn't get out of the way quickly enough.

Indira sprawled over on top of Imalia as the Career wrapped her arms around Indira's legs. But instead of striking with her knives, Imalia simply wrapped Indira in her grasp, then pushed off. Indira lashed out as she realized what was happening. Imalia's momentum quickly propelled the two of them down the hill they had climbed.

Water. Suddenly, there was water everywhere. Indira thrashed, trying to get to the surface, but Imalia's arms were still wrapped tightly around her legs. _You'll drown, too. _Indira kicked as hard as she could, but Imalia wouldn't let go. She simply kept pulling her down. Down.

A few seconds. Then a few more. It felt as if her lungs were about to burst, but she knew that if she started to breathe, it would be over.

It would all be over.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

It would all be over soon.

Imalia held onto Indira's legs as tightly as she could as the pair began to sink. Soon, it would all be over. One way or another. Either she would be dead, or Indira would.

Indira was still struggling, but how long would that last? How deep of a breath had she gotten before they had both gone under? Knowing what was coming, Imalia had taken as deep a breath as she could. Like any Career from District Four, she could hold her breath longer than most tributes.

But would that be enough?

Her lungs were burning. A little longer, and she would have to let go. She would have to swim for the surface, no matter what Indira did. She could only hope…

Just as she thought her lungs might burst, Indira's thrashing became even wilder, more desperate. Immediately, Imalia released the other girl from her grasp and kicked upwards as hard as she could. In the dark, she couldn't tell how far the surface was. Would she be able to make it?

Then something grabbed her. Somehow, Indira's arms had found her in the dark. Imalia kicked as hard as she could. Then again. And again.

Finally, Indira let go.

* * *

**Indira Serren, 18  
****District Ten**

Finally, she let go.

Indira's arms and legs thrashed wildly as Imalia's legs left her grasp. Water was filling her lungs. She had to get to the surface. She had to…

But it was getting hard even to move. Her arms and legs felt like they were weighted down with lead. Maybe they were. Maybe that was all her body was now. Extra weight.

Maybe she didn't need it anymore.

She didn't even feel cold anymore. She barely felt wet. She just felt so heavy. So tired. So tired.

For a moment, she almost thought she heard a cannon.

* * *

**Imalia Grenier, 17  
****District Four**

As her head broke the water, she heard a cannon.

Imalia gasped as the cold, damp air filled her lungs once more. A cannon. And it wasn't hers. She was alive. She was still alive.

And Indira was dead.

Gasping, Imalia thrashed for a moment before the ladder was lowered. She could barely see the hovercraft in the dark, but she clung to the ladder with all the strength she had left as the fanfare sounded. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the Forty-Second Annual Hunger Games: Imalia Grenier!"

A Victor.

She was a Victor. But that didn't matter right now.

She was alive.

And Indira…

* * *

**Ellery Brand, 15**

Indira was dead.

Ellery glanced around the bar. Every eye, it seemed, was on the screens, which showed the ladder drawing Imalia into the hovercraft. Soon, another hovercraft came to collect the two bodies, the column of smoke diving down into the water to retrieve Indira's. But Ellery wasn't watching the screens.

She was watching the mentors.

Some were crying. Some were drinking. Even the mentors from District Four didn't seem happy or excited. They simply looked relieved. And everyone else…

To everyone else, it was just another year. Another year where their tribute hadn't won. Some had made it far, while some had died early. In the end, they were all just as dead.

Dead.

She had always known, of course, that the tributes died. Everyone knew that. They were all there, onscreen. She had seen the blood, the gore, the severed limbs and broken bodies. But there was something different about this.

Something different about _them_.

Rylee quickly bounced off Presley's lap, not fully understanding, maybe, why it was such a big deal. There would always be next year, after all. And the next. Always a chance to try again.

Exactly what she had thought at Rylee's age.

She'd always had her favorites, of course. Occasionally, she had cried when a particularly young or especially attractive tribute had died. But, even then, it hadn't quite seemed real. Not as real as the tears in Glenn and Presley's eyes now. Not as real as the blood that all three of the final tributes had shed.

Ellery felt an arm around her shoulders. Silently, she buried her face in her father's shirt. "Why did you let us come?"

Her father gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You asked, remember? You wanted to know what it was like to be this close to the Victors. You wanted to know what they were really like." He shook his head. "Well, this is what the Games are really like."

"It's not…" She hesitated. Not what? Not glamorous? Not exciting? Not wonderful. "It's not what I thought it would be," she decided.

Her father shook his head. "No. No, it isn't."

* * *

"_And one day, you'll be standing where I'm standing now … and then you'll finally realize that you cannot fight the inevitable."_


	51. Desperately

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Sorry this took a while longer than I intended. Post-Games stuff is always the hardest for me to actually sit down and write. There will be one more chapter after this, and then we're done. Wow.

But I'm not disappearing. I'm still working on _Forged in Fire_, and, because some people have already asked, yes, I am planning a sequel to _For a Reason_. I'll probably wait until I'm a bit farther into _Forged in Fire _to get started on it, though. This whole two-SYOTs-at-a-time thing is fun, but it's also a lot of tributes to keep track of. So we'll wait until FIF's tributes start dying before plunging into another.

* * *

**Desperately**

* * *

**Imalia Grenier  
****Victor of the 42****nd**** Hunger Games**

She was dry.

Imalia took a breath of warm, clear air as consciousness slowly drifted back. The bed beneath her was soft, the blankets that lay over her warm and fluffy. The room was just the right temperature, the pillows just the right thickness.

She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be comfortable.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. After days of constantly being pelted by rain, it was somewhat shocking to be able to see clearly. The lights were bright but not blinding, the walls around her a soft, gentle beige.

"Welcome back."

Kalypso. Imalia felt her mentor's hand slide into hers. But she wasn't alone. Bierce, Naomi, and Mags stood beside her. Instinctively, Imalia tried to sit up. But her arms didn't seem to be working properly. Imalia glanced down. Her right arm was in a cast, her left shoulder bandaged. "Take it easy," Kalypso said gently, easing her back down. "You're all right. You're safe."

Safe.

She was safe. Safe from boars and bears and columns of smoke and rising water. Safe from the other tributes. She didn't have to worry about them any more.

They were dead.

They were all dead.

Imalia swallowed back a sob. _No_. She wasn't going to cry. Careers didn't cry. Not when she had just won the Games. Not when she had just accomplished what she had spent years working for. Not when she had just gotten everything she'd ever wanted.

Everything she had thought she wanted.

_Safe_. Safe and warm and dry and comfortable. That was all she wanted now. To stay here, as long as they would let her. To sleep.

She just wanted to sleep.

Kalypso nodded. "Get some rest. You don't need to worry about the rest right now."

_The rest_. The interviews. The highlights from the Games. The lights and the crowds and the spectacle. Imalia closed her eyes. _Not right now_.

Not yet.

Slowly, she drifted off to sleep. When she opened her eyes again, most of the others were gone. Only Mags remained, sitting silently in a chair at her side. "It was my turn," she offered in response to Imalia's unasked question. "We have an unwritten agreement that no one should have to be alone when they've just survived the Games."

Survived. For some reason, that sounded better than _won_. She was alive. She had survived. But wasn't that the same thing as winning? Wasn't that the definition of winning the Games? Be the last one to survive?

Somehow, the two didn't feel the same at all.

"Thank you." Her voice was hoarse, but it felt good to talk. More than that, it felt good to talk to someone who wouldn't be dead in a few days. "I…" She held her hand to her throat.

Mags nodded, handing her a glass. "I thought you might be."

Imalia took a long drink. The liquid was warm and fruity and very sweet. Finally, she smiled a little. It felt good to drink something that wasn't _water_. "I thought so," Mags agreed. "I didn't drink water for a while after my Games, either. Or eat fish, for that matter. But you can imagine how long that lasted in District Four."

Imalia chuckled a little. It felt good to laugh. She hadn't laughed since … since she and Indira had sat beside the bear's body, laughing like a couple of schoolgirls. How long ago _had _that been? It seemed like ages, but it couldn't have been more than a week. "How long since…?"

Since what? Since the Games? Since Indira died? Since she had killed her – her friend? Imalia took another drink, swallowing back her tears along with the juice. She'd had to do what she did. If she hadn't, she would be dead, and…

And Indira would be alive. That was how close it had come. One wrong move – just one – and everything could have gone the other way. She'd been faster. Stronger. She'd had more training. And, in the end, it had still come down to luck. She had been able to hold her breath a little longer, fight a little harder in the end. That had been the only difference between living and dying. Just one breath.

"Two days," Mags answered.

Imalia closed her eyes. Two days since the arena. Six days in the Games. Five days in the Capitol before that. Two days on the train. That made fifteen. Fifteen days since the reapings. Barely more than two weeks since she had left District Four.

It seemed like a lifetime.

* * *

**Mags Pharos  
****District Four Mentor**

"How's she taking it?"

Mags shook her head. Imalia had drifted off to sleep again – after downing three straight glasses of juice. "About as well as you'd expect. She just killed her friend, Kalypso."

"An ally. An ally she knew had to die."

"A _friend_, Kalypso. Sometimes, friendship isn't logical – or even reasonable. I know what you want to ask her, but … just give her time."

"We don't have time. District Four doesn't have time. It has to be her, Mags. And it has to be soon, or we'll lose any momentum her victory might give us."

Mags shook her head. "Why do you even ask for my advice if you're just going to ignore it?"

"Because I respect your opinion, Mags. But it's no secret you've never been the biggest proponent of the Career system—"

"—or its biggest critic. This isn't about the Career system. This is about a seventeen-year-old girl who just survived the arena. Give her time."

"I'm sorry, Mags. I'd like to." She turned to enter Imalia's room. "But I can't."

* * *

**Imalia Grenier  
****Victor of the 42****nd**** Hunger Games**

It still didn't quite seem real.

Imalia took a deep breath as she smoothed her dress out one more time, then adjusted her veil. Her hair had started to grow back a little – just a short stubble – but a veil felt better. More comfortable. Almost as if she could hide – at least a little.

No. No, she wasn't supposed to hide. She was supposed to be proud. Proud and strong. That was what they would expect from a Career. That was what Kalypso expected. And after everything her mentor had done, after everything District Four had lost, she owed them that.

Didn't she?

Imalia glanced down at her dress. Sea-blue, a color chosen on purpose to represent her district, her white veil reminiscent of foam on top of the waves. Everything had been purposely chosen. Everything was perfectly planned. Now she just had to do her part.

But, now that it came to it, she wasn't sure she wanted to.

Imalia swallowed hard, clenching her fists. It would be over soon. And the sooner it was over, the sooner she could go home. That was why she had refused to let them postpone the interview a little longer, to let her recover. Why her arm was still in a cast beneath the folds of her dress. Why her head still spun if she stood up too fast, or her shoulder started to ache if she kept it in the same position too long.

It would go away, the doctors kept telling her. The soreness. The stiffness. The constant feeling of exhaustion. But she couldn't wait for it to go away. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could go home.

Strange, how that was all she wanted now. For so long, she'd wanted to get away from the dreary tedium of everyday life in District Four. Now, she wanted simply – desperately – to go home.

But first she had to get through this.

_Just walk onstage._

Okay. That much. She could do that much. Imalia took a deep breath, put on her best smile for the cameras, and took a step forward. Then another. Soon, she was standing next to Constance, who was beaming as she motioned to a seat beside her. Smiling out at the audience, Imalia took her seat.

Constance's smile never wavered. "Well, Imalia, I must say, it is _wonderful _to see you again – in person, I mean. You've been waiting for this moment for a long time."

"Longer than you can imagine. Every child in District Four grows up dreaming of a moment like this."

"And is it everything you imagined?"

_No. _None of it was what she had imagined. But she couldn't say that. Not here. Not now. Not if she wanted to go through with Kalypso's plan. She had to play along. Play the perfect Career.

"It's even better, Constance. Being in the arena … it gives you a new sense of everything, a new appreciation for things."

Constance leaned forward a little. "Give us an example, Imalia."

"Warm water. Dry clothes. Good food. Any sort of food that isn't boar meat, really." That got a chuckle from the audience. Good. "Things you don't realize you miss until you have to go without them."

That much was true, at least. And maybe that was enough. Maybe there was enough truth to what she was saying to make it real. Maybe something about the arena _had _been good.

"And family. I didn't realize how much … how much I would miss my family. How much I would miss my district. Being away for so long made me realize just how much I miss District Four, just how lucky I was to grow up there." _Come on. Take the bait._

"Even after everything that happened?"

_Perfect. _"I assume you're talking about the incident at the training center. That was one Victor, misguided, unhinged, acting alone. Most of us were grateful to have such an opportunity. A chance to improve our lives. A chance to represent our district. I'll always be grateful for the training I received there. It saved my life."

"So you credit your training, then? For your victory?"

"In part. If I hadn't been prepared – both physically and mentally – well, I can't say exactly how the Games would have gone, but it probably would have been different."

Constance nodded. "And, with that in mind, let's take a look back at how the Games _did _go." The lights dimmed, and a large screen lit up.

First came the reapings, with a focus, naturally, on District Four. All six of them. Six volunteers, ready and willing to risk their lives for … what? Glory? Honor? The pride of their district? A chance at something better? Whatever their various motives, they were all driven towards the same goal. A goal that had led five of them to their deaths.

The chariot rides were skimmed over, and her interview the only one shown. "_So the trick is to use just enough force, to pull slowly and steadily enough to reel in the fish _without _breaking your line. That's one of the first things my parents taught me – and the most useful. Because that's the trick in the Games, isn't it? To win – but to win without breaking. And I don't intend to break._"

It sounded so silly now. But maybe it was true – at least a little. She hadn't broken. Had she? She was still here, after all. She hadn't run offstage, crying. She wasn't an emotional wreck. She hadn't started raving against the Capitol. She was here. She was safe.

She was fine.

The screen cut to a view of two hovercrafts, landing on opposite sides of the island. Imalia leaned forward a little, curious. What _had _happened to the other members of her original alliance? To Mavina and Zach?

As soon as the gong sounded, she found out. Inviticus immediately grabbed Mavina, slammed her head against the hovercraft wall, let her sink to the floor, and pressed his boot against her neck. She never stood a chance; her cannon sounded quickly, the first death of the Games.

Others quickly followed. The cameras cut back and forth between the two hovercrafts. Auster, the older girl from Seven, the larger girl from Eight, one of the boys from Six – they all fell quickly. Another boy from Six – the redhead – and his twin sister fled the other hovercraft, only to be ambushed by the girl from Three. The girl escaped, but the boy wasn't so lucky.

The girl, in turn, quickly ran into one of the younger boys from Eight. Despite his attempts to reason with her – maybe even befriend her – she attacked. The boy managed to kill her, but her body was carried away by the current of the river and disappeared into the mouth of a cave. Seconds later, smoke came pouring out. The same smoke that had brought the boy from Seven to the finale.

Meanwhile, one of the girls from Eight and the little girl from Six had found a pit of bodies. The pair of them set a trap, the younger girl crying, luring in one of the boys from Eight long enough to bludgeon him with a pair of hammers.

Then the cameras turned to her own alliance. She, Indira, and Shale headed south along the shore, while Jarlan stayed at the hovercraft. Delvin attacked, and Jarlan spared him – just like he had said. Stupid of him, maybe, but if he hadn't…

Shale spotted the cabin, and the three of them approached. Now she could see what she hadn't noticed then – the other boy from Eleven, slipping quietly away, abandoning his allies to their fate.

It was a fate that came swiftly. The battle seemed even shorter now than she had remembered it. First the boy, then the girl – asking only that Imalia make it quick. Then the parachute. The crowbar the sponsors had sent. Imalia smiled a little. Maybe she hadn't thought much of the weapon at the time, but it had been something. And it had probably saved her life.

No. _She _had saved her life. The sponsors had sent the crowbar, of course, but she had earned it. She had taken the initiative – something Jarlan had never understood. If only he had killed Delvin then, they might have sent _him _something instead of her. An eighteen-year-old boy, however inexperienced, was certainly a more impressive kill than the two younger tributes from Eleven had been.

But she had killed. And he hadn't. And that had given her enough of an edge to earn the sponsors' attention.

Zach, meanwhile, was trailing the pair of tributes from Twelve, and finally worked up the courage to attack. But it was too little, too late. They were ready for him – or, at least, as ready as they could be – and, together, they managed to overpower him. Imalia nodded a little. Maybe Mavina and Zach hadn't been ideal choices for allies, after all. Maybe it was better that she and Jarlan had ended up with Shale and Indira.

Inviticus, Jaime, and Naella, on the other hand, had finally left the hovercraft and were heading east along the shore. The girl from Three, as well, was on the move, and quickly found one of the girls from Ten. Maybe hoping to impress the audience, she tied the other girl to a tree and began to slice away at her body.

The boy from Seven, hearing his ally's screams, crept closer, but, before he could intervene, the cloud of smoke did the job for him, leaving the girl from Three at his mercy as he crept closer. He finished her off, only to find her body was hiding some sort of door in the ground. It didn't take him long to figure out that it would be safer inside than out, and he quickly descended into the hole.

Inviticus, Naella, and Jaime, meanwhile, had found a place to rest for the night – a cave on the edge of a cliff. But rest didn't seem to be Inviticus' plan, and he quickly turned on his two allies. Together, they managed to bring him down. They made quite the team – the two girls. Maybe it was a good thing they'd been on the opposite side of the arena…

Back on her own side of the arena, Brevin and Kendall were following the pair of girls who had found the pit. The girls quickly led them to a group of houses where one of the larger alliances had been hiding. The two girls snuck in first, but were quickly overpowered by a girl from Eight and a boy from Three. Meanwhile, Brevin and Kendall attacked the others, managing to kill two of them. But Kendall was killed, and Brevin fled, leaving three members of the alliance unharmed, while the fourth – the other boy from Three – fled into the night.

On the other side of the island, the _other _boy from Three had formed a temporary alliance with the boy from Ten, but broke it off just in time to be killed by the bear. Imalia shook her head. What would have happened if the two had stayed together a little longer? Would the bear even have attacked them?

Her own alliance, meanwhile, had also split up – Delvin and Shale leaving with Jarlan while she and Indira headed in the other direction. The boar attacked, and the tape showed the entirety of the fight. But Imalia's attention was elsewhere. What _had _happened to Jarlan and Shale? How had Delvin managed to kill them?

It wasn't long before she got her answer. The trio found an old ship, and, after sneaking away, Delvin ran into Septimus and his allies, who had slowly been making their way inland. Imalia nodded. So _that _explained how the girl from Seven had known about her instructions to Delvin. Delvin proceeded to tell Septimus everything, and Septimus hatched his own plan.

It wasn't until Septimus and his allies had defeated Jarlan and Shale, however, that Imalia realized exactly what that plan had entailed. Instead of simply killing the two of them, Septimus and his allies brought Jarlan and Shale inside the ship and chained them to the wall. After killing Jarlan, Septimus turned on Shale.

After a few cuts, Imalia looked away. That wasn't what was supposed to happen. Wasn't what she had intended. Maybe she had meant for Jarlan to die, and maybe she had been willing to accept that Shale would have to die, too, but not like _that_.

Finally, Shale passed out, and the girl from Seven offered to take over. Smirking, Septimus obliged, but, once inside the ship, the girl prepared to kill Shale quickly. But Shale had something else in mind. He handed over the key to the chest they had found, and the girl from Seven gave him one of the sticks of dynamite.

The girl from Seven sent Septimus back in, then fled along with the pair from Nine. Liana followed Septimus back inside the ship. "Take care of your brothers, Asher," Shale instructed, just before the whole ship exploded.

Imalia swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat. It was her fault. If she hadn't told Delvin to kill them…

Then what? Then maybe Shale would have lived longer – and Jarlan, Septimus, and Liana, as well. That made four stronger opponents she could have been facing in the finale. Instead, they were all dead, in one move. It had been the right move.

Any move that kept her alive would have been the right move.

It wasn't as if she had _meant _for Septimus to torture Shale. There was no way she could have known. Nothing she could have done. And, as horrible as it was, it could have been worse.

It could have been _her_.

For a while, everything seemed to blur together. Lights came on all across the island, drawing tributes in. Brevin came across the pair from Twelve in the tunnels, and easily killed them both. The boy from Three who had run from the houses attacked a pair of girls from Seven and Ten, and killed the girl from Seven. The boy from Ten followed the light in the sky to the hatch where the boy from Seven was still hiding, but was too dazed from the drop into the tunnels to fight back.

The girls from Seven and Nine, meanwhile, had found the greenhouse, as had she and Indira. They drew the girls out, quickly killing them both. _"Traitor," _the girl from Seven spat. At the time, the word hadn't stung, but now…

Now nothing. She had betrayed her allies, yes, but so had pretty much every other Victor ever … except the ones whose allies had died on their own, or who hadn't had allies in the first place. No alliance lasted forever in the Games.

The alliance at the houses was beginning to discover the same thing. The younger girl snuck out to go after the girl from Ten, only to let her former ally, the boy from Three, kill the girl. The other boy from Three, noticing his ally's absence, ran off to look for her – in the wrong direction – leaving the girl from Eight alone.

The remaining boy from Eight, the other girl from Nine, and the deaf boy from Eleven found Delvin, sleeping beneath a tree. The boy from Eight attacked, but Delvin woke too quickly, killing him while the others fled. But they didn't get far before a bear prevented them from escaping, and the pair turned and attacked Delvin, instead, killing him – but not before the boy from Eleven was badly injured by the bear.

Naella and Jaime, meanwhile, had discovered the boy from Seven's hiding place, and were searching for another way in. While they were searching, however, Naella took the opportunity to take out a greater threat – Jaime.

Imalia nodded a little. Naella had been able to do what she hadn't – turn on an ally at the best opportunity. How many times had she had the chance to kill Indira? How many times had the two of them let each other live?

The boy from Eleven, as well, didn't hesitate to turn on _his _ally – maybe hoping that proving he could kill would gain him some medicine from sponsors. His efforts went unrewarded, but Naella's kill prompted the Gamemakres to reveal another entrance to the hatch – through a sewer system.

Not that it did her much good. No sooner had she cornered the boy from Seven than he called for the column of smoke, which dropped Naella to her death as the hatch began to flood. The boy from Seven rode a wooden chair to the top of the tunnels, escaping with only an injured leg.

The boy from Three, meanwhile, had briefly allied with the boy from Nine to take down the "Careers" the boy claimed were at the greenhouse. Seeing there was no one, however, the pair turned on each other, and the boy from Three was killed.

Brevin, who had been making his way back to the houses in the hope of finding food, was enraged to find them gone, and wandered right into the clutches of the girl from Eight. The battle that followed was much closer than it should have been – much closer than it _would _have been, had Brevin been thinking clearly. As it was, the girl managed to retrieve a second knife from her pocket and surprise Brevin with a blow to the side.

Imalia shook her head. He should have seen that coming. _Would _have seen that coming, if he'd been paying more attention. If he'd been a bit more focused.

Water began to flood the stone building where the boy from Three and the girl from Nine had taken refuge, and, as they were climbing, the boy decided it was time for their alliance to end. But the two of them tumbled from the wall together, and the girl recovered first, wounding the boy and leaving him for dead as the waters rose, escaping over the wall.

The rising water had also begun to force Imalia and Indira uphill, where they found the bear. Imalia leaned forward a little. She hadn't realized, then, just how large the bear was. Just how small they were. Just how stupid they had been to think attacking it was a good idea.

Indira ran. Imalia charged. And, together, they brought down the bear. Imalia smiled a little as she watched herself laughing, leaning back against the bear's body, just grateful to be alive. Grateful that Indira was alive with her. Grateful that they were still together.

Their laughter, however, drew the girl from Eight, who quickly regretted it. The boy from Seven, meanwhile, had discovered the boy from Eleven sleeping beneath a tree, and quickly put him out of his misery. The girl and boy from Nine found each other, but, instead of allying, they attacked each other. The girl managed to wound the boy before running … right into Indira and Imalia, who quickly killed her even as she tried to lead them back to the boy, who died from his injuries just as they found him.

Then the finale. Imalia clenched her fists, bracing herself for what she knew was coming. The column of smoke brought the boy from Seven, who, failing to convince them to turn on each other, ran for one of the trees. Sparks flew as Imalia struck the burning tree until it exploded, throwing her backwards.

But it was Indira who found the boy from Seven, injured beneath the branches. She quickly killed him, then turned to face Imalia.

It felt strange – watching the fight from the outside. It hadn't lasted nearly as long as she'd thought. She attacked, Indira dodged, until, finally, she goaded Indira into attacking, instead. The two traded blows, attacking, dodging, bleeding – until she finally dove, tackling Indira and throwing both of them downhill.

The cameras caught every moment of their struggle in the water. She dragged Indira down as her ally – her _friend _– struggled to keep from breathing the water. When she finally let go, Indira tried to fight. But she didn't have a chance. Not really. Not in the water.

But she could have. If she hadn't taken the bait. If she hadn't started attacking when Imalia had revealed that she had betrayed Shale. If she had kept her head a little longer, things might have gone very differently.

And that had made the difference. That was all. A little concentration. A little mental training. A little knowledge of what it would take to make Indira snap – that was all that had saved her life.

The fanfare sounded, and the lights came back on. Imalia took a deep breath. It was over. It was really over.

Almost.

"That was quite a finale, Imalia," Constance beamed. "Can you tell us a little of what was going through your mind at that moment?"

There were so many things she could say. But only one that was both true and a safe thing to say. "Just one thought, really: _I want to live._"

Constance nodded. "Is that what it comes down to then? Wanting to live?"

"Maybe. But it isn't enough to just _want _it the most. Everyone in the arena wants to live. But you have to be willing to fight for it. Willing to kill for it. And while some of that is natural, I have to say that it also helps to be prepared." She leaned forward a little. "Take Indira, for example."

"What about her?"

"She wanted to live as much as any of us. She was willing to fight for it. She fought – and killed – nearly as many tributes as I did. She was every bit as determined as I was. I was just more prepared."

"So you think, with training, she could have been as good as you?"

Imalia thought for a moment before answering, quietly. "I think she could have been even better. I think, all things being equal, if she'd had access to the same training I had, if she'd been taught as much as I had, if she'd trained as long and as hard as I had … it wouldn't have been a contest. She would have won. She had so much … so much natural talent. So much determination. I'm … I'm honored to have been her ally. Honored to have been her friend. And I hope that, maybe one day, I can be half the role model to my district as she was to hers."

Constance wiped a tear from her eye. _Is she really crying? _It took Imalia a moment to realize that there were tears on her cheeks, as well. _Stop it. Stop crying, you idiot._

She still had a job to do.

"I'm sure your district considers you a fantastic role model," Constance offered through tears.

"I hope so." Imalia took a deep breath. "I know our district has had some … difficulties with role models recently. I can only hope that, in some way, what I've accomplished can begin to make amends for that. And maybe, one day, we can begin to earn back the trust that one foolish Victor so carelessly lost."

She looked up. Up in the far corner of the audience where Kalypso had told her the president would be sitting. The cameras followed her gaze, training in on President Grisom. Waiting, as she was, for a response.

The president nodded a little. And that was it. Just a nod. But in that nod was so much more. A small grain of hope that – someday – District Four might regain its place as a Career district. That they might earn back the Capitol's trust and be allowed to train again.

That was what Kalypso had wanted. What Naomi had wanted. What District Four surely wanted. And maybe it was even what _she _wanted. The Career system, after all, _was _the reason she was sitting here. She had been truthful about that much; her training had saved her life.

But it was also training that had put her in danger in the first place.

Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe not. And maybe … maybe she didn't need to sort that out right now. Imalia rose again, taking in the audience's cheers, a smile on her face – a smile that felt a bit less forced, a bit more genuine. Right now, she didn't want to think about Careers or the Games or the tributes who had lost their lives.

Right now, she just wanted to go home.

* * *

"_Why do you want to leave the island? What is it that you so desperately want to get back to?"_


	52. Where I Am Now

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And with this chapter, we've reached the end of _For a Reason_. It's been a fun ride, as well as the longest story I've ever written, both in terms of words and how long it took to write – nearly a full year. Thank you to everyone who read, and especially to everyone who submitted a tribute. And congratulations to _Lupus Overkill _for Imalia's well-deserved win.

On a different note, no, I'm not disappearing. _Forged in Fire _is still going. (Almost done with the reapings, almost done with the reapings...) And there will be something else coming in this particular canon between this story and my next SYOT. I'm not entirely sure what form it's going to take yet. It might be a one-shot or a series of shorter things. I'll figure it out. More on that at the end of the chapter.

Anyway, without further ado, back to our Victor...

* * *

**Where I Am Now**

* * *

**Imalia Grenier  
****Victor of the 42****nd**** Hunger Games**

She wished they would leave her alone.

Imalia took another deep breath before plunging beneath the waves once more, letting the water wash over her. It had been weeks before she'd dared to venture out into the water, but, once she'd overcome that initial reluctance, the water had become a refuge. They knew not to bother her here – the young, hopeful Careers-to-be who came to her for advice. The ones who wanted her to help them train. The ones who saw her as the savior of the Career system.

But she hadn't saved it – not really. There were still trainees, yes, but not nearly as many as there had been before. Their weapons were gone, as was the training center. Training nowadays consisted of sparring with homemade weapons and going for long runs or swims to build endurance. And maybe that was better than nothing, but it was still pitiful compared to the training she'd received.

Imalia surfaced again, letting the air fill her lungs before returning to the depths. It wasn't fair to compare the two. Kalypso and Naomi were doing the best they could with the tools they had. But the fact remained that interest was dwindling. Part of the appeal of training had been the fun of playing around with different kinds of weapons. Picking up a sword or a spear or a trident gave trainees a small taste of the glory of the Games.

Now that glory was gone. And maybe that was good. It helped weed out the trainees who were only there for fun. The ones who were left were guaranteed to be the ones who were serious about volunteering, not just training because it was something fun to do. But still…

"Imalia!" The voice echoed across the waves as she surfaced once more. "Imalia! It's almost time!"

Imalia took a long, deep breath and dove beneath the waves. Deeper. Deeper. Until her lungs ached from holding her breath for so long. Only once she was sure she could last no longer did she finally swim for the surface, breaking the water with a gasp. Breathing. Still breathing.

"Don't scare me like that!" her mother scolded playfully from the dock. "You know I hate it when you do that."

Imalia smiled a little as she pulled herself up onto the dock. She'd survived the Hunger Games, and her mother was still worried when she went for a swim. She shook her head, flinging water across the dock as her hair, now a few inches long again, flapped across her face. "Sorry."

Her mother shook her head, draping a towel around Imalia's shoulders. "Come on. You don't want to be late for the train."

The train. Her victory tour. Imalia took a deep breath as she and her mother headed back to Victors' Village. She'd been stalling – that much must have been obvious. Returning to District Four was one thing, but having to face the other districts…

Imalia clenched her fists. The other Victors had made it through their tours. So could she. And after the last two years, the Capitol would probably be satisfied with anything that wasn't a complete breakdown. She didn't have to impress anyone. She just had to _not _say anything stupid.

Twenty minutes later, she was dried off, cleaned up, and dressed in a simple blue-grey gown. Mags and Kalypso met her at the door, along with the cameras. Imalia smiled for the audience, gave her mother and father a hug, and let Kalypso and Mags lead her to the train.

She could do this.

* * *

**Kalypso Wayland  
****District Four Mentor**

"Just keep it simple."

Kalypso took a seat next to Imalia, pouring a few glasses of juice. "Everyone always wants to say something important. Something meaningful. Trust me, so did I. But there is no right thing to say. There's nothing you can say that will change the fact that forty-five other children are dead. Just say what you have to, get through this, and let them go back to their lives."

Imalia nodded a little. "Simple," she repeated. "Right."

"I know," Mags said quietly. "Nothing about this is simple. But sometimes, people don't need to hear the truth. Sometimes they need something normal. After what happened last year, and the year before that … they need stability more than they need honesty."

Honesty. The truth. Imalia was good at keeping the truth to herself – so good that, most of the time, Kalpyso wasn't even sure what their youngest Victor was thinking. She put on a brave face in front of the rest of the district – smiling, encouraging the younger trainees, grateful for their support and welcome. But behind that…

Behind that was the girl who went out for a swim nearly every day, disappearing under the waves as long as she could, pushing herself to the limit. The girl who would sometimes pick up a makeshift weapon and spar with the trainees as if she were one of them – but who, just as often, would turn them away. Her moods seemed to come and go like the tide, but without the same rhythm and predictability.

But maybe that wasn't the important thing. Maybe the important thing was that she was still here. She hadn't secluded herself from the district entirely like Misha had before his death. Maybe she hadn't thrown herself back into district life the way Bierce had, or into Career training, as Kalypso and Naomi had, but she was trying. Trying to find her place.

Kalypso gave Imalia's hand a squeeze. "Don't worry. You'll do fine. And in a few days, none of it's going to matter. They'll all forget what you said, anyway, and everyone will just be grateful you didn't cause a riot."

_As long as you _don't_ cause a riot._ Not that Imalia had given any indication that she might say anything rebellious, but, after the last two years, there was no telling. Who would have known that Kit's nervous breakdown would have led to a rebellion? Who would have known that Misha's paranoia would finally lead him to self-destruct?

Kalypso shook the thought from her head. No. Imalia would do just fine. She wasn't Misha. She knew what she had to do. She had done just fine during her interview after the Games, and she would do the same now.

She just had to hold it together for a few days.

* * *

**Asher Avenheim  
****Brother of Shale Avenheim**

He was tired of holding it together.

Asher blinked the tears from his eyes as he and Raver herded their younger brothers onto the stage. Karinth followed silently, ignoring the crowd around them. The six of them were quickly joined by Elani's parents and older brother, Philus' parents and five siblings, and Pan's mother and younger brother and sister. All waiting for Imalia to arrive and tell them how brave their siblings had been, how nobly they had died, how much honor they had brought to their district.

Asher gave Raver's hand a squeeze. He didn't care how much honor Shale had brought them. He just wanted his brother back. But he was gone. Shale was never coming back.

And it was Imalia's fault.

Not only her fault, of course, but she'd had a part in it. And that was something he could never forgive. But he kept those thoughts to himself. He had to. If anyone ever found out what he had thought of doing, that he longed to do to Imalia what Septimus had done to Shale, then the Capitol would take care of him – and probably his brothers along with him.

No, there was nothing he could do about it. Not without jeopardizing his brother's lives along with his own. And Shale wouldn't want that. Not when he had used his last breath to tell Asher to take care of his brothers. Asher swallowed hard. He had to hold himself back. For their sakes. He had to take care of them.

The crowd hushed as Imalia joined them onstage, clearly more uneasy than she had been in District Twelve. Of course, she'd had no hand in the deaths of District Twelve's tributes. But District Eleven … she had killed Elani and Pan and all but arranged Shale's death. Maybe she was right to be nervous.

But no one did a thing. No one said anything when she commended Elani's bravery for engaging her in a fight, even knowing it was one she wouldn't win. No one objected when she applauded Pan and Philus' dedication to their district and their willingness to fight on behalf of District Eleven.

And no one did anything – _he _didn't do anything – when she turned towards him and his brothers and praised Shale's loyalty, his dedication to his district and his family even in death. "His sacrifice brought honor to your district and your family – and probably changed the course of the Games. If he hadn't killed Septimus and Liana, things might have gone very differently … and I might not be standing here. Thank you for your brother. Thank you, District Eleven, for your tributes."

_Thank you. _As if they had given them willingly. As if they had freely offered up four tributes to die so that she could live. Asher gripped Raver's hand tightly but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Nothing that would make one bit of difference.

* * *

**Rissa Valleso  
****Mother of Indira Serren**

Nothing she could say would make a bit of difference.

Rissa took a deep breath as she, her husband, and their son Auron took their places on the stage, waiting. Waiting along with the other families of the fallen tributes. Beckett's parents, Calantha's parents, Elizabet's parents and younger brother. Waiting for Imalia to come and reopen the wounds that had just begun to heal.

Not that it was her fault – not really. She was a victim, just as much as Indira had been. She had volunteered for the Games, yes, but she had been raised in a district where that was encouraged. If Indira had grown up in District Four, instead…

Rissa swallowed hard. Imalia's words at the interview after the Games had never really left her. If Indira had been born in a Career district, if she'd had access to the same training Imalia had received, she might have survived.

No, not 'might have.' Imalia had seemed fairly certain that, given the same amount of training, Indira would have won their fight. That Indira would have been the Victor. Whether she truly believed that or whether she was simply trying to say something kind, Rissa wasn't sure. But the words had stayed with her. Her daughter could have survived. Maybe her daughter _should _have survived.

Rissa looked away as Imalia joined them onstage. She took a step towards the families, hesitating. "I didn't have the honor of knowing Elizabet or Calantha or even Beckett very well. But all three of them were willing to fight for their district. All three of them brought honor to District Ten and died bravely."

Imalia took a step closer. "Indira, on the other hand, I did know. She was brave. She was strong. She was determined – sometimes even more determined than I was. She was the one to remind me, more than once, exactly what I had volunteered for. And while that sometimes made me question my choice … in the end, I'm convinced I made the right one, because…"

She trailed off for a moment, but then recovered. "Because I got to know her. I've never felt as close to anyone as I felt in that week in the arena … and I don't know if I ever will again. Indira and I – we were allies. We were friends. We fought side by side to the end, and there were times when I thought – when I was sure – that we would die for each other.

"But we didn't. We couldn't. We both wanted to come home too much – and, in the end, neither of us was willing to give that up for the other. Killing her was … it was the hardest part of the Games. The hardest thing I've ever done, and, hopefully, the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. But if I had to do it again … I would, because I know she would have done the same. She would have killed me for the chance to come home. She fought for every last breath, and, for that, you should be proud."

Rissa brushed the tears from her eyes. She _was _proud of Indira – but not for the reasons Imalia had given. She was proud that, even in the midst of the Games, Indira had been able to find happiness and friendship – if only for a little while. That something her daughter had done, something about who she was, had touched Imalia deeply. Maybe even changed her.

That was something she could be proud of.

* * *

**Avery Bentham  
****District Three Mentor**

How could she possibly be so calm?

Avery gripped Miriam's hand as Imalia joined them onstage, along with Horatio's parents, India's family, Aleron's parents and sister, and Evander's parents and younger brother and sister. Imalia's expression was calm, stable, even after so many districts.

Then again, Imalia had returned home to a family who loved and supported her, rather than returning to find her family had been killed because of her actions. Imalia had helped restore her district's status as a Career district, rather than contributing to their reputation as rebels. Maybe it wasn't fair to try to hold herself to the same standard.

After all, she was still here. And some days, that was a victory in and of itself. But time and again, Vester's words had come back to her. _Not tonight_. One day, and then another, she had found a reason to keep going – just a little longer. Just one more day. And then another.

Six months later, she still wasn't entirely sure why she was holding on.

Imalia smiled at the families of the fallen tributes, gave her same little speech about them having brought honor to their districts – or close enough to the same speech. Not that she had expected anything else. Imalia hadn't really known any of District Three's tributes at all. To pretend otherwise would have been more insulting than a standard speech.

But after the cameras turned off, after the families had gone, Imalia made her way to Avery's side. Avery glanced up, surprised, as the older girl held out her hand. Hesitantlay, Avery reached out and shook it. Imalia gripped the younger Victor's hand firmly. "Your district should be proud," she said quietly.

Avery swallowed hard. Her district. Her fellow mentors, Miriam and Percival. The others in her district who had lost so much. They were looking to her, to see how she would react. They were looking to her to be strong. Avery nodded a little as Imalia let go of her hand.

_Not tonight._

* * *

**Meredith Grenier  
****Mother of Imalia Grenier**

She was finally home.

Meredith smiled a little as the train pulled into the station. As soon as it came to a stop, the doors opened, and Imalia stepped out. She looked tired. Drained, even. But it was almost over. Just one more speech to give.

Meredith and Allan accompanied Imalia back to the square, where the families of the five fallen tributes were already waiting onstage. Mavina's parents and sister. Auster's parents. Kendall's parents and younger brother. Brevin's parents, two brothers, and younger sister. And a few of Jarlan's friends from the academy.

Imalia took a deep breath, glanced at the paper in her hand, and then tucked it inside her pocket. "I thought District Four would be easier," she said quietly. "After all, all six of us volunteered for this. We wanted this. We had a choice – and we all chose the Games, even knowing the danger. I thought that would make it easier.

"And it did, in Districts One and Two. But I didn't really know any of them. Jarlan and I decided early on during training not to try to join the main Career pack, and, once we were in the arena, we were completely separated from the other Careers. So I never really got to know them.

"But I did know my fellow tributes from District Four – at least a little. Auster and Mavina were my fellow Victors' first choice as volunteers – and with good reason. Both were capable. Both were determined to bring honor to our district. And both died far too soon in the Games. They deserved better, but they fought as hard as they could and were outmatched. There's no shame in that.

"Kendall and Brevin fought their hardest, as well, and didn't shrink away from any challenge – even attacking a much larger alliance in a well-defended position. If they hadn't been separated from the rest of their alliance at the start – if they'd had a few more allies to help them early on in the Games – then things might have gone very differently.

"And Jarlan … What can I say? We disagreed, we argued, but, in the end, we respected each other. I asked Delvin to kill him because I was beginning to doubt his motives, but the truth was that some part of me recognized him as one of my most dangerous opponents. I don't know who would have won in a fair fight between us, but I have my guesses.

"But, ultimately, he was too trusting. Too idealistic. He didn't see Delvin's betrayal coming – a betrayal that wouldn't have been possible if he hadn't spared Delvin's life earlier. He wanted to be in the Games, but he … he didn't want to do what it would take to win them once he was there."

Imalia shook her head, turning to face the rest of the district. "The Career system in District Four has been a strong one, but it has its flaws. Sometimes people don't stop to think – _really _think – about what's going to be asked of them once they're in the Games. I know I didn't. Not fully. I had some inkling, yes, but I didn't realize just how hard it was going to be, just how far I would have to go.

"If there's one good thing that's come from our Career system being a bit … dismantled, it's this: It's forced trainees to take a much closer look at why they're training. At whether they really want to be here. I believe I made the right decision when I chose to enter the Games, but I also know that decision … it wouldn't have been right for everyone. Maybe it wasn't right for Jarlan. Maybe…"

She shook her head. "Maybe we'll never know. But I just want to ask those of you who are training for next year's Games to think. To be sure. Because once you volunteer, there's no going back. And once you're in the arena … everything changes."

There was silence for a moment. But then, slowly, quietly, one person and then another began to applaud. A few young trainees ran onstage, clapping, shouting loudly that, yes, they were sure. They were ready. Imalia took a step back, letting them have the stage as they began to cheer. To smile and wave, letting the Capitol know that, yes, there were still Careers in District Four, ready and willing to lay down their lives.

Not that any of them _meant _to lay down their lives, of course. But at least three of them would. Meredith saw the weight of that knowledge in her daughter's eyes as Imalia slipped quietly off the stage. Next Games, there would be four tributes. Four volunteers, more likely than not. At least three of them would die. And there would still be more.

There would always be more.

* * *

**Eldred Brand  
****Bartender**

"There are always more of them."

Eldred shook his head, watching the screen. The three volunteers from District Four had been rejected by the main Career pack, and were now planning an attack on the cornucopia. "I don't understand it," Eldred admitted. "I never have. Why would they volunteer for this when—"

"When they know they'll probably die?" Imalia slid into a seat beside Eldred and Nicodemus.

"Well, not to put it too bluntly, but yes," Eldred nodded. "Nine volunteers this year – _nine__. _Two from One, Two, and Five, and three from Four. They have to realize their chances."

Imalia nodded a little. "Some of them do. Some of them don't. Most of the ones from Four, though … they know what they're volunteering for. And they make their choice, anyway. Sometimes … sometimes I wonder why, but then I remember why _I _volunteered, how eager I was, and … well, it makes a bit more sense."

"Why _did _you volunteer?"

Imalia hesitated, then leaned forward a little. "Look, we all know this isn't your real job – tending this bar. But imagine for a moment that it was. Imagine that you knew you would be doing this job for the rest of your life – day in and day out. Imagine the customers are rude, pushing and shoving, complaining that you don't have the right kinds of drinks even though it's not your fault you don't have the supplies you need. Imagine the bar is always dirty, no matter how hard you try to keep it clean, and you make enough money to get by, but you have to work _every day_, and your children have to work _every day_ in order to do it.

"Now, imagine that happens for a few generations, and, one day, one of your grandchildren, or maybe your great-grandchildren, decides they've had enough. What are their options? They can stay put and complain every day. They can run away, try to start their own life – but they don't want to do that because they still love your family, even if they hate the job. Or they can volunteer for the Games, take their chances at a better life even though they know that chance is slim. Do you understand why someone might choose the third option?"

"I think I understand," Eldred nodded. Imalia smiled a little, then got up to rejoin her fellow mentors from District Four.

"No, you don't," Nicodemus said quietly, leaning back in his wheelchair. "It's not your fault. It's just hard to imagine something like that when you've had more than enough all your life. You can pity them, but you don't really understand their desperation, their _need _for a better life."

Eldred opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. Nicodemus was right. He still didn't understand – not really. After four years, he still didn't understand.

Eldred leaned forward a little. "Then show me."

Nicodemus cocked an eyebrow. "Show you."

Eldred nodded. "We all know what Imalia said is true; bartending isn't … well, it's not my real job. My real job – at least during the Games – is to watch you, all of you, and try to understand. But after four years, I still … I still don't. Not really."

Nicodemus shook his head. "Where's this coming from, Eldred?"

Eldred glanced around, wondering who else might be listening. The president hadn't _said _it was a secret, but…

"There's a reason he picked me," Eldred said quietly. "There's a reason I'm here, trying to get a better understanding of the districts, but … well, there's only so much I can learn from sitting and talking with all of you for … what? Two weeks? Three? And then I go back to—"

Nicodemus smiled a little, putting the pieces together. "The reason you're here – the reason he wants you to understand the districts – is it…?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations."

Eldred shook his head. "Don't throw me a party just yet. I haven't said yes."

Nicodemus nodded. "You'd be foolish if you did – say yes right away, that is. But I still don't understand … why come to me?"

Eldred hesitated. Why _had _he chosen Nicodemus? "Because you're the only person I thought might say yes."

"To what?"

Eldred took a deep breath. There was no going back now. He had made up his mind a few days ago, but now that it came to it … it wasn't so easy. Maybe this was how Careers felt, just before volunteering for the Games. Maybe. Eldred smiled a little.

"I have a favor to ask."

* * *

"_No, I needed that pain — to get to where I am now."_

* * *

**Note: **And that's a wrap. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you on the flip side.


End file.
